


Going Where We've Never Been

by phthalo



Series: Alone, Until I Get Home [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-06-23 18:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phthalo/pseuds/phthalo
Summary: Set after the events of Alone, Until I Get Home, Killian, Emma, and Ian enjoy a few months of peace and quiet and navigate settling into a new sort of life together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome back! I am very excited to be writing this mini-sequel, which will cover events from the end of August to the end of November. The BIG sequel will pick up where this mini-sequel leaves off, and plunge us right back into the usual angst and adventure, so for right now...enjoy the fluff >:D

Killian feels summer waning as August draws to a close.

In the past, the changing of the seasons usually signaled a change in venue—new waters, new ports, new distractions. He could never afford to stay in one place for too long, driven onward both by necessity and by restlessness.

Now, for the first time in well over a century, Killian is...standing still.

And yet he doesn't feel _stagnant_ , because where he is now he's never been, and where he's going he's never been either, and this time around his crew is Emma and Ian, the most worthy companions he's ever had.

They spend the final week of Ian's vacation milking every last drop of enjoyment from the time remaining, filling the daylight hours with swimming, games in the yard, sidewalk chalk (which makes it painfully obvious to Killian that Ian's artistic skills were inherited from Emma), and during the evening they catch lightning bugs, sit together on the porch swing, and eat marshmallows roasted over a little fire that Emma conjures and makes float magically in midair.

However, shot through all this enjoyment is an undercurrent of preparation—Ian's about to begin 1st grade, and, according to Emma, it's a Very Big Deal.

"He's not, like, a baby anymore," she tells him one afternoon, while Ian's occupied testing out a new ball Emma bought him—testing how many times he can kick the black-and-white checkered sphere against the house before either the ball breaks or the siding does.

Killian's never thought of Ian as a _baby_ —he never had the privilege of that experience—but he understands well the desire for Ian not to grow up too fast; he wants to hold on to as much as he can for as long as he can.

Unable to locate the proper words to soothe her, Killian instead joins Emma in folding Ian's newly purchased and freshly laundered school uniform, pressing a kiss to her cheek before firmly tugging the Ian-sized pair of khaki pants she's holding from her grip. Emma smacks him lightly on the arm but Killian sees her smile as she bends over the wicker basket and fishes out a soft gray shirt with a folded collar and a crest stitched in maroon thread on the breast.

Killian folds the khaki trousers neatly and moves onto another pair; after he's folded five he asks, "Does the lad really need so many trousers?"

Emma snorts. "Do _you_ want to do laundry every day?"

"No."

"Then yes."

Killian finishes the pants and moves onto the socks, which match the shirts, crest and all.

Emma expressed her opinion on the... _thoroughness_ of the uniform requirements during the car ride home from the store that afternoon. Killian, who was in the Royal Navy and is therefore no stranger to stringent dress codes, kept his mouth shut—but apparently failed to control his expression.

"You _like_ the uniform, don't you?" Emma asked, side-eyeing him.

Killian merely shrugged and said, "I may be a pirate, Swan, but as you might have noticed, I have a code and I believe in good form."

He caught and held her gaze for a moment, until her glare softened and turned thoughtful.

"It wasn't Silver's lash that taught me how to conduct myself," he said, "It was the Navy. Everything I learned about self-discipline I learned there."

"What's a lash?" Ian appeared then, head and shoulders thrust through the gap between the two front seats.

"It's like your eyelashes," Emma said, and while Ian contemplated what eyelashes had to do with self-discipline, Emma pushed him back into the backseat with one hand and told him, "Seatbelt, kid. _Now_."

They finish folding the clothes in companionable silence, Emma occasionally bumping Killian's hip with hers. Their work is punctuated by the rhythmic thumping of Ian's ball against various parts of the house, the sound different each time, depending on where the ball struck.

"So, you're saying you think wearing a uniform is going to teach our kid self-discipline?" Emma asks, tongue stuck between her teeth in a teasing grin.

Killian grins back and adds another folded ball of socks to the pile of the other thousand or so. "What I'm saying is that self-discipline is a valuable skill, and learning to take care of your personal possessions and respect your personal appearance is an aspect of that."

"What makes you think our kid doesn't already respect his personal appearance?"

"Well-"

"Is it the fact that he frequently wears mismatched socks?"

Killian chuckles.

"Or," she continues, "does it have to do with his complete lack of personal hygiene? Like the fact that just this morning we found out—by _smell_ —that he's been wearing the same pair of underwear for a week?"

"It's all of those things, love," Killian says.

Laundry folded, Emma transfers the piles from the porch swing back into the wicker basket, and then they sit down. Killian lays his arm along the back of the swing, behind Emma's head; his hand falls to the hair flowing over her shoulder, fingers burying themselves gleefully in the golden strands.

"Do you truly feel that negatively about Ian being required to wear a uniform?" he asks, gently tugging on one long, slightly wavy lock.

"No," she says. "I was just annoyed that I _had_ to buy all those things, especially when they jack up the prices purely because they know you have no choice."

She leans her head back, resting it on his arm.

"I only ended up at a school that had uniforms once," she says. "I actually liked it. I looked just like everyone else. Nobody made fun of my clothes."

"Did that happen often? People making fun of your clothes?"

"At other schools, yea. My clothes were just whatever was donated to the group home—or hand-me-downs from other foster kids. Usually they were pretty outdated and like, you know, not the _cool_ brands."

"Has that ever happened to Ian or Henry?"

"It happened to Henry a few times in middle school, back when we first moved to Boston and I'd just had Ian and money was pretty tight. He had a _lot_ of cheap clothes from Target until high school, and—I don't know—kids just notice those things."

"What about Ian?"

"No. He has no idea what fashion is and most kids his age don't really either. He only cares about what superhero is on his t-shirt and then everything else is just whatever's the first thing he finds in the drawer. I mean, you've seen his socks."

Killian had. Very often Ian wore two socks that were the same type but different colors; occasionally both socks were not only different colors but different lengths as well.

"I thought he did that on purpose?" Killian says.

"He doesn't."

Her statement is followed by the reverberating thud of a large rubber ball hitting a window.

Emma sighs. "God dammit." Her eyelids flutter shut briefly in what Killian recognizes as a silent plea for patience, then she stands, goes to the edge of the porch, leans over the railing, and says, "Alright, time to stop."

"Why?" Ian asks, from somewhere below Killian's line of sight.

"Because I told you to keep the ball away from the windows," Emma says.

There's a brief pause.

"Don't even try to tell me that that's not what I just heard," Emma adds, tone suddenly sharp. "Killian David Swan, I know what a soccer ball hitting a window sounds like."

There's another pause, this one, Killian assumes, filled with some eye rolling or a pouty lip and maybe a huff or two.

"Can I kick it against the shed?" Ian asks.

"No. Actually, your dad's about to come down there to play with you."

"He is?"

"I am?" Killian asks.

"Yep," Emma says, to Killian or to Ian or possibly to both of them. "Why don't you go figure out what's gonna be the net—it can't be the house, it has to be something grandma and grandpa _didn't_ just pay five-hundred thousand dollars for." She turns back to Killian, her hands sliding into the pockets of her jean shorts. "Sorry, I sort of forgot to tell you. I signed Ian up for soccer so you two can bond over it."

Killian blinks. "I don't understand."

She smiles, in the amused way she does when she's talking about some aspect of modern life or popular culture that she knows he's completely ignorant of.

"Alright, let me back up." She returns to the porch swing and sits beside him with one leg folded beneath her. "Sports are like...really important in this world."

"Sports," Killian says slowly. "That ball he's been battering the house with is part of some sport—soccer."

"Yea."

"And Ian plays another sport?"

"Baseball."

"And sports are...important?"

"Yea, you know, they help kids get exercise and they teach them about teamwork and about how hard work helps you achieve your goals and stuff."

"Oh."

"Right. So, Ian's one of those kids that both really likes sports and is _really_ frickin' good at them—it doesn't matter what sport it is or if he's ever played it before, it takes him like 5 minutes to figure things out and then he's an All-Star."

Killian isn't precisely sure what _All-Star_ means, but he's noticed during their fencing lessons and hand-to-hand drills that Ian has good coordination, balance, and reflexes, and Killian will admit that he's quite proud of the tenacity with which Ian practices a new skill—he hopes that when the lad's an adult he won't end up _needing_ any of the things Killian's teaching him, but Killian can at least be assured that, at the rate they're going, if Ian _does_ need to defend himself with a sword or his own bare fists, there won't be many that will be able to match him.

"Anyway," Emma says, "like I said, Ian loves sports."

"Aye..." Killian says, still uncertain where this is all heading, besides him being volunteered as possibly just another surface for Ian to kick a ball against.

"Ian needs something to do in the fall otherwise he's going to drive both of us crazy." She shifts, turning her upper body towards him and planting her elbow atop the back of the swing so she can rest her cheek on her knuckles. "He plays baseball but they don't have a fall league here so that'll have to wait until the spring; he wants to do hockey and I guess this year I'll have to say yes but that's not until December or something. There's football but I don't actually want him playing football. Lacrosse would have been fine but there's no lacrosse. The only real option was soccer He's never played before, but I think he'll like it. And it's something you two can play together."

"Ah."

Her eyes flick back and forth between his, her lips sliding once again into that amused smile.

"Most sports require two hands," she says. "You play soccer with your feet."

" _Ah_."

"Yea." She tilts her head into her hand. "Baseball and hockey might be kinda, um, hard for you, so I thought if Ian got into soccer, you two could play together. You know, in the backyard and stuff."

Her free hand is resting on his thigh near his knee, one finger swiping back and forth against the fabric of his jeans.

"Is that okay? If it—I didn't mean to be insensitive or offend you or someth-"

" _Emma_." Killian drops his hand on top of hers, stilling her anxious finger. "I'm well aware that I only have one hand, but I think you'll agree that I work very hard to overcome the... _limitations_ it presents."

He quirks an eyebrow and, as expected, Emma blushes. The smug little demon at the helm of Killian's libido purrs, satisfied to have made such an impression.

"I'm not upset," he says, more seriously. "I'm still adjusting to this world, and I appreciate any and all opportunities to bond with Ian over the things that are important to _him_."

Emma smiles and flips her hand, fitting their palms together and threading her fingers through his.

It always seems a bit miraculous to him, that a woman of such strength can have hands that are smooth as silk and feel almost delicate—there are many parts of her that seem that way, though Killian knows the power of her body, and that's not merely because he was—happily—within the vise-like grip of her thighs the previous night.

Killian loves her, every part of her, and he loves that she thought to sign Ian up for a sport that was accessible to Killian purely for them to bond over.

He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. As he's lowering their joined hands to his thigh, Ian stomps up the steps. His face is pink, the hair along his temples dark with sweat, and both of his knees are smudged with grass stains.

"Hey," he says, loudly. "Are we gonna play or what?"

-/-

They spend the evening before Ian's first day of school at the beach.

The bit of sand called Plum Cove is hardly as glorious as East Point, but it's a 10 minute walk from the house and it gets very little traffic during the day.

At sunset on a Tuesday evening, it's deserted.

The moon being the thinnest, barely-there sliver of silver in the deepening blue of the sky, the tide is low, the water peeled back from the beach like the covers drawn off a bed, revealing a wide, flat expanse of sodden, hard-packed sand dotted here and there with rocks and shells.

The temperature isn't ideal for swimming, but Ian, Killian, and David brave the waves for as long as they can stand before retreating to the warm embrace of the towels that Emma and Snow wrap around their shoulders.

When the sky is fully dark, David pulls out the remnants of the fireworks leftover from the 4th of July, and tosses Killian a lighter.

Before Killian can ask if the gesture is an invitation or a command, Ian pounces and latches onto his hook arm. "Ooh, I wanna help, can I help?"

"Erm..."

He looks to Emma but she offers him only a pair of raised eyebrows that speak volumes: _What are you looking at me for? You're his dad._

"Aye," Killian says, to Ian. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Emma smile. "But you have to stay right beside me and do exactly as I say."

"Okay!" Ian grins hugely, and then they follow David and his box of fireworks across the sand to a spot a polite distance away from Emma and Snow.

It turns out the lighter was an invitation. Killian and David share it back and forth, taking turns lighting a fuse and then skittering to safety. Ian elects to stand by the box and choose the fireworks for them; his favoritism is clear, and after David receives his third smoke bomb in a row he tosses the small sphere over his shoulder and picks up Ian instead.

"Alright, that's it you little punk," David growls. "Time for the tickle monster!"

He manages to get Ian vertical and upside-down, braced against his chest with one arm locked tight around Ian's waist, and his free hand ticking Ian's belly.

Killian watches as Ian squirms and screams with laughter. Jealousy simmers lowly in his belly, but he ignores it.

He knows there's nothing to be jealous of, and he knows that, the more healthy relationships with adults Ian has, the more role models he's surrounded by, the safer and the happier he'll be; David and Snow, Ruby and Belle, Robin, Will, and Little John, Granny and Ava, they're all a part of Ian's life, and Killian's grateful for it, grateful that his son's not growing up the way he did— the way Emma did.

When Ian's out of breath, David puts him down. Ian collapses immediately, but grins up at them from the sand and says, "Hey, grandpa, did you know my dad plays soccer?"

David, also out of breath, puts his hands on his hips and says, "He does?"

"Yea! He's really good! He's teaching me how to play."

David swings his head around to look at Killian—Killian presumes it's with incredulity and stares back impassively, awaiting the comment he knows is coming.

"How do you...can you _really_ play soccer?"

"Aye," Killian says. "I used the Google to-"

"It's just called Google."

"I—what?"

"It's not called _the_ Google. It's just Google."

"That's..." _An impractical name_. "Fine, then. I used _Google_ to look up some of the rules."

He used Emma's laptop to read the entire Wikipedia article on soccer, then watched two hours of YouTube tutorials—all in bed, and all while Emma smirked at him over the copy of _Harry Potter_ she was reading.

"Emma signed the lad up for soccer," he says. "She thought it would be a good sport for us to play together."

In the darkness, Killian sees David's teeth flash in a grin. "That's great," he says. "That's a good sport for you two." He turns his glowing smile on Ian. "You guys will have to teach me how to play."

" _You_ don't know how to play soccer?" Ian asks, with awe.

"Nope."

Ian bounces back to his feet and begins an expository on soccer and everything he's learned so far. David listens, nodding and offering comments or small queries when there are breaks in Ian's chattering.

They work their way through the box of the fireworks, a series of aerials with a variety of effects—Killian likes the one that resembles a waterfall, and Ian likes the one that crackles. The final firework is a Roman candle. Killian reaches for it, but Ian holds on, clutching it to his chest with both hands.

"Can I do it?" He smiles pleadingly. " _Pleaeeaaase_ ," he whines through his teeth.

Killian sighs inwardly.

Ian's a bright lad with a lot of energy and an endless supply of curiosity. Killian's learning how to negotiate between what Ian _wants_ to do and what's actually safe or acceptable for him to do; he can't be contained outright, he can only be steered—sometimes gently, sometimes with a firmer hand—down the least destructive avenues.

"We can do it together," Killian says.

He squats with one bare knee braced on the sand, and Ian moves to stand between his thighs. He adjusts Ian's grip so he's holding the Roman candle near the base, then he wraps his hand over Ian's. David lights the fuse, and Killian swings both his and Ian's arms towards the sky.

The first explosion startles the lad and he gasps, but Killian holds him steady. By the time the fourth greenish rocket lights up the sky, Ian's laughing.

"That was so cool!" he gushes afterwards, while he, Killian, and David walk back towards Emma and Snow. "I'm gonna go tell mom!"

Ian races ahead, leaving Killian and David to walk side-by-side, David with the box of discarded fireworks in his arms.

"You know," David says, as soon as Ian's out of earshot, "I meant what I said earlier, about soccer—about it being a good sport for you and Ian to play together."

Killian, caught off guard, can only muster up an "Oh?" in response.

"Yea," David says, and Killian sees him shrug. "The time you spend with Ian doing things like that—playing soccer and all that stargazing stuff that you do together—that's going to be what he remembers later on in life. That's...those are things I wish I could have done with Emma."

"I-"

 _I don't know what to say_.

Killian's technically much older than David, and yet, for some reason, he feels like the man's junior. He supposes it's out of respect, for the type of person David is, for what he's been through—even if it seems minor compared to what Killian's endured; it's an acknowledgement of David's place in Emma's life, of the fact that David puts her and Henry and Ian before himself, always.

And maybe, maybe a little, it's a sign of his admiration for the man—despite their original and still occasional friction.

"Thank you, David," he says. Something warm and heavy settles in his gut, not a feeling that makes him feel weighed down, but a feeling that makes him feel anchored—an anchor jarred immediately loose by a jovial but jarring open-palm thunderclap to his shoulder.

"You know," David says, "It's not actually impossible for you to play other sports with Ian."

"Really?" Killian asks, hoarsely because David knocked the wind out of him.

"Yea—I mean, it probably wouldn't be easy, but you could do it, you'd just need to make a few modifications. Like, for baseball you'd probably need some sort of special mitt, but for hockey I think you'd just have to shoot left instead of right."

Those are too many words and phrases in that statement that Killian doesn't understand, and he doesn't have time to unpack it all, but he recognizes it for what it is—a genuine offer to help.

"When the time comes, if you could help me with that...I'd appreciate it," Killian says.

"Yea, of course," David says, and delivers another blow to Killian's back that Killian's certain will leave him with a permanent arrhythmia.

-/-

The next morning Emma and Killian walk Ian to his new school.

It's only a half mile away, two long blocks to the west, and four short blocks to the south, as Killian makes sure to point out to Ian.

Ian nods diligently, and grips Killian's fingers harder. He must do the same on his other side, to Emma's hand, because she looks down and asks, "You nervous, kid?"

"No," Ian says, but with that stubborn, sullen tone that Killian knows means he's lying.

Emma catches Killian's eye over Ian's head, and smiles at him before returning her attention to Ian.

"Who do you think is going to be in your class?" she asks.

Ian shrugs, a rapid up-and-down jerk of his shoulders.

"Do you think any of the kids from Misthaven House will be there? Maybe the little red-headed guy you're friends with—what's his name again?"

"Leo."

"Right. Leo. I think he's the same age as you. Do you think he'll be in your class?"

"Maybe."

David and Snow are in the habit of bringing Ian and sometimes Rowan or Roland to Misthaven House with them when they visit. Through those visits Ian has become acquainted with several children his own age, both boys and girls; he's grown the closest to a lad with copper hair and doleful brown eyes, a boy abandoned as an infant on Misthaven's doorstep in the Enchanted Forest and subsequently named Leo in honor of the orphanage's benefactor's father, King Leopold.

"What about Roland?" Killian asks, giving Ian's hand a squeeze.

"Roland's in 4th grade," Ian replies, still staring straight ahead.

"Right. I meant perhaps you'll see him in the hallways? Or at, er, recess?"

"Maybe."

"You'll see Rowan," Emma wheedles. "She's in Kindergarten and I know the 1st graders and the Kindergarteners have lunch in the cafeteria together."

"Mm."

Emma stops, dragging Ian and then Killian to a halt beside her; she drops Ian's hand and kneels in front of him, taking him by the elbows and turning him to face her.

"You miss Sienna, don't you?" she asks.

Ian's chin drops onto his chest and his shoulders droop. "Yea," he mumbles.

"It's okay to feel sad that she's not here," Emma says, thumbs stroking Ian's arms. "She's your best friend. You're going to miss her."

Ian slumps forward and Emma catches him, her arms going around his backpack, his head falling onto her shoulder.

"When we go visit Henry in October we'll go see Sienna and Cole, okay?"

"Okay."

Sarah Fisher is in Storybrooke, and although she told her daughter Tiana all about the town and its residents and even Sarah's own past, Sarah chose to keep Tiana—and Sienna and Cole—safely in Boston.

"Maybe when you get home you can draw Sienna a picture and we can mail it to her. How 'bout that?"

Ian nods.

"You can use your new Mr. Sketch markers. I bet she'll like the one that smells like strawberry ice cream. It'll remind her of you."

The markers in question are in Ian's backpack, alongside a cache of other school supplies that were all carefully chosen during an excruciatingly long trip to a Target 45 minutes outside of Storybrooke.

When Killian expressed his consternation with the selection process, the meticulous weighing and measuring of the various qualities of every folder, notebook, and pencil sharpener available, Emma silenced him with a look that turned his bowels to liquid.

"You would't understand," she told him darkly, while Ian, totally oblivious, frowned over the five pairs of scissors he had laid in a neat row on the store floor, endeavoring (Killian could only assume) to decide which color would cut paper best.

"Feel any better?" Emma asks.

In response, Ian picks himself up and squares his shoulders. Killian doesn't need to see his face to know the determined set to his jaw. He whirls, grabbing Killian's hand and Emma's once she's standing again, and they continue down the sidewalk.

"Can we Skype Henry later?" he asks, his smile now as bright as the sun glimmering overhead.

"Sure thing, kid," Emma says. "I bet he'll want to hear all about your first day."

At the school, they're greeted by a horde of shrieking children, ranging in size from Ian's height to nearly Emma's, all milling around in the fenced-in bit of concrete before an enormous brick building.

"I didn't know there were so many children in Storybrooke," Killian says, eyeing the crowd. The boys are dressed identically to Ian, but the girls wear maroon-and-gray plaid skirts instead of trousers.

"They're K-8 right now, with two classes per grade," Emma says. "But they're building a middle school, so in a few years it'll just be K-5 with 3 classes per grade—and this isn't even the only elementary school."

"Were there this many children here before?"

"No. My mom said more families moved to the Enchanted Forest once word got around that she and my dad had returned and taken over the kingdom."

"Ah. That makes sense," Killian says. Many had fled the Enchanted Forest well before Regina ever cast the Dark Curse, hoping for a peaceful life somewhere beyond the reach of her magic and her Black Knights.

"She said technically the town itself is bigger this time than it was last time too," Emma adds. "They're still trying to figure out the exact borders. I guess there's a ton of farmland out to the west and up north, and some more forest past that."

"I guess you're going to need that second Sheriff's Department after all," Killian says.

"Yea, along with like ten million other things," Emma mutters.

Killian smiles to himself. He had been present at Snow and David's dinner table for more than his fair share of discussions concerning what Storybrooke needed now that normalcy was (temporarily, at least) restored.

Another Sheriff's Department and at least ten new deputies was Emma's primary concern, along with establishing a Parks Department in order to employ Robin and the Merry Men as forest rangers, and some sort of prison beyond the psychiatric wing at the hospital that Regina used.

When Killian was asked what he thought Storybrooke needed, he quipped, "A decent bar."

They laughed at his joke, but he was semi-serious.

At the entrance to the school yard, Ian disengages his hand from Killian's, and purposefully steps away.

"Too cool for us already, huh kid?"

Ian grins, but darts immediately back to Emma to hug her around the middle. Emma wraps one arm around his shoulders, and combs her other hand through his hair.

"Do you know where your line is?" she asks.

"No," Ian says.

"It's over by the playground. See the playground?" She waits until Ian lifts his head, locates the playground, and nods. "Okay, your line is over there. The room numbers are painted on the ground. You're room 102."

Ian transfers his hug from Emma to Killian, and it's a struggle for Killian not to hug him too tightly, hold on too desperately. School is an adventure that Killian can't accompany his son on. Not truly. How will it change him?

"I love you, lad," he says.

Ian's arms are the ones that tighten. "I love you too."

"Do a good job today, aye? Behave. Respect your teacher and your classmates."

"I will."

"When I pick you up later I want you to tell me about all your new friends."

Ian beams up at him. His freckles multiplied over the summer, spreading from his nose to his cheeks and beyond. Killian rather liked them, though Emma said most would disappear by Christmas.

"Alright," Emma says, reaching out to run her fingers through Ian's hair one final time. "Go get 'em, tiger,"

Ian trots into the school yard. Emma and Killian watch him immediately approach a group of students kicking around a soccer ball, a group that looks to be at least two years older. Killian holds his breath, but after a brief conversation with one of the boys, Ian drops his dinosaur backpack and joins the fray.

Emma snorts. "Eugh. He's gonna get all sweaty. That's gonna be the first impression our kid makes on his teacher—sweaty and gross."

Their bodies come together, closing the space between them that Ian had previously filled. Killian slips his arm around his waist, fingers finding a gap between her t-shirt and her jeans and pressing against bare flesh. Emma folds her arms over her stomach, one of her hands just brushing the hand he has settled on her waist.

"Shall we find a place to watch that's less...conspicuous?" he suggests.

"Yep. Good idea."

They locate a large tree off to the side, and are surprised to the shade beneath it already occupied—by Robin, Ruby, and Belle.

After a chorus of good morning's are exchanged, they take turns pointing out their respective children. Roland is standing off to the side, gripping his backpack straps and watching a group of three boys nearby standing shoulder-to-shoulder and reading a comic book together.

"He'll be alright," Robin says. "It takes him a little while to work up the courage to talk to other kids, but he always gets there eventually."

Rowan is standing with a small group of girls beside an adult that Belle says is Rowan's teacher; one of the girls in the group is a friend of Rowan's from Misthaven House. On a hunch, Killian turns his eyes from the children in the school yard to the adults waiting along the sidewalk outside the fence, and sees Nemo.

Something constricts inside of him, like a fist squeezing his lungs, but Nemo merely inclines his head in greeting before turning away; one of the fairies—or nuns or whatever—is beside him with a clipboard, and Killian sees another fairy standing on the steps of a yellow school bus parked on the street.

Killian feels fingers on his spine and snaps his head around to find Emma smiling up at him softly, her green eyes a deep emerald in the shade from the tree.

He still hasn't told her about Liam, but he'll have to soon, before Liam shows up on their doorstep or Killian's body is found in an alley somewhere.

Killian forces the fist in his chest to loosen its grip, until he feels like he can breathe again, and returns Emma's smile. She continues to rub circles on the small of his back with her fingers until a whistle blows, and the school yard is plunged into chaos.

More adults appear suddenly in the crowd, herding the scrambling students in different directions. Killian spots Ian, his golden hair like a beacon, bobbing up and down in a line of other students near the playground. Leo the redhead is right behind him. They watch Ian march all the way to the front door, where he turns and waves wildly.

Emma and Killian raise their hands simultaneously and wave back.

-/-

They walk back into town as a group, parting ways one-by-one. Ruby leaves first for the animal shelter, Belle next for the library, and Robin goes on ahead to the station so that Emma and Killian can have a moment alone.

Killian pulls Emma into the shadows beneath the awning hanging above one of the shops. She lands against his chest, which is precisely what he was hoping for. A hum of pure satisfaction escapes his throat as he takes her by the rear and tugs her closer, savoring the contrasts of her body, soft breasts and hips, firm stomach and lean arms locked rigidly around his waist.

She gasps and then giggles, melting into him, her hand slipping beneath his shirt and her nails dragging across his skin.

"Perhaps you have time to go the Jolly Roger for some breakfast," he murmurs.

"I can't," she says. Her nose is just below the point where his collarbones meet, rubbing against his chest hair, her breath tickling his skin. "Robin and my dad will notice and I really don't want to deal with Robin's smirk and my dad's angry face all day."

"Tonight then."

She bites her lip in a smile. "Yea. Ian will probably be pretty tired out from school. We can put him to bed early."

Killian's leaning down to kiss her when he hears shoes scuffing the pavement and they spring apart. He knows he shouldn't expect privacy when they're almost literally in the middle of the street, but he glares at the man anyway, some poor sod that, by the looks of it, just wanted his morning coffee and bagel from Granny's.

Emma clears her throat lightly, forcing Killian to abandon the murder he's plotting and look at her.

"So, what are you going to do today?" she asks.

"I have some things to take care of aboard the Jolly that should keep me busy," he says.

It's a complete lie, but he can't bring himself to tell her the truth.

"Sounds good," she says. "You won't forget to pick up Ian, right?"

"Of course not, love. 2:15."

She smiles at him and goes up on her tiptoes to kiss him goodbye.

"Make sure he does his homework before dinner," she says over her shoulder.

-/-

Killian goes straight to Granny's, and sits at her counter. Without him asking, she sets a mug of black coffee in front of him.

"Thank you," he says, more tersely than intended.

Her fists settle on her hips, and she tilts her chin down to peer at him over her glasses.

"What's on your mind?"

It's not the question he expected, but still he only says, "Nothing." and pointedly lifts his mug to his lips.

She arcs an eyebrow. Killian stares back, taking the world's longest sip of coffee, until she shakes her head and goes off to busy herself with other customers.

Alone once again, Killian sets the mug down, thoughts burrowing inwards, deeper and deeper into that dark pit at his center.

The truth he couldn't tell Emma is that he has nothing to do today.

Ian is at school, Emma is at work, there's no crisis, and Killian is...adrift.

The purpose he had previously is disappeared. He's not certain what his role is, what he's supposed to do, what he's _expected_ to do. 

_I...need a job._

Money isn't an issue now, but it will be, eventually.

And that's not even the biggest problem.

The biggest problem is that he wants Ian to be proud of him, he wants to be someone his son can look up to.

The only sort of example Killian's own father set is what _not_ to do. He still doesn't know to this day what exactly his father did to earn money after his mother died, only that Brennan Jones left every morning at sunrise and came back—usually—at nightfall. Sometimes he'd come back much later, after Killian and Liam had already gone to bed. He'd knock into furniture and curse while Killian and Liam lay there, pretending to be asleep, until he eventually he found his bed. Or the floor.

Killian's not ashamed of being a pirate, but the small fortune he has was earned through plunder, and that's not what Killian wants Ian to remember him for.

With a ragged breath he drags himself out of his thoughts.

The first thing he's aware of is Granny looming over him, hovering ominously like the blade of a guillotine.

"What?" he asks, again far more sharply than intended.

"I'm going to ask you one more time what's on your mind," she says. "And if you don't answer me honestly and in a polite tone of voice, I'm going to send you back to the kitchen to scrub pans until you've got your head on straight."

Killian almost chokes on the incredulous laugh that bubbles up his throat, but he stops himself just in time and swallows it down.

"Pardon me?" he asks, as courteously as he can.

"Good. I've got your attention. Now, what's on your mind?"

He blinks. His traitorous mind instantly tunnels straight down to the pit Killian just dragged himself out of, grabs hold of all his worries, and brings them to the surface like sunken treasure.

"I want to do right by my son," he says, words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them. "I don't want him to look back on his childhood and think he had a wastrel for a father. I need a job."

She looks at him for an impossibly long moment, then she slings the towel in her hands over her shoulder and says, "Follow me."

"What?"

"You hard of hearing as well as short on brain cells? I said follow me."

She's already moving down the counter and towards the doorway that leads to the restrooms and the inn. Killian hurries off his stool and chases after her. She leads him out the side door, across the parking lot, and to another door, the back door of the building directly adjacent.

"Are you—you're not breaking in, are you?" he asks, as she opens the creaky screen door and removes a ring of keys from her apron pocket.

"Never heard of anyone breaking in with their own key before," she says.

Killian's surprised his teeth don't break, so quickly does he snap his own jaw shut. He watches in silence as she inserts a key into the heavy wooden panel door and shoves it open with her hip.

She goes inside, and Killian follows her through a small back room that looks like storage and then through another door into the main space. It's dark, but there are windows—the windows that look out onto Main Street—on the opposite end of the room, and Killian can make out the rectangular shape of the place and the long counter set into one wall.

"What is this place?" he asks.

"It's a bar," Granny says. "And it needs an owner."

"Why not you?"

"Do I look like I'm interested in having Leroy passed out on my floor every night?"

"I thought that's already what happens?"

"It does. Which is why I want someone to open this damned bar, so he can pass out on someone else's floor for a change."

"So you _do_ own it?"

"Of course I own it. But I'm willing to sell it for a modest price—or charge rent until you decide you're ready to buy."

Killian steps farther into the room, rotating slowly on his heel, gaze roving up and down as he turns.

"It's...it's not bad," he admits. Despite the dust and the jumble of tables and chairs pushed haphazardly against the wall opposite the bar, the space is serviceable.

"Yea," she says, looking around. "It needs a little bit of love and some decorations that _don't_ look like every sports team from Massachusetts threw up in here, but it's pretty much good to go. You could have it up and running in a month."

He walks to the bar, uses his sleeve to scrub away the dust and then lays his fingers on the wood.

It's good, solid and golden-hued, probably oak.

"So," Granny says. "Do you want it or not?"

-/-

An hour later Killian is holding a set of three keys—front door, back door, basement—on a wolf's head keychain.

He signed no papers, only shook the old lady's hand and agreed to lease the bar for 6 months, at which point they'd discuss the next step. Granny leaves him to contemplate the genius or the stupidity of his decision in the bar alone, only gives him a "You're too hard on yourself, by the way," as she leaves.

Killian disagrees, but he doesn't bother to respond.

When he's certain he's alone, he takes his cell phone from his pocket, dials Emma, and puts the phone to his ear.

"Swan," he says, when she answers. "I've got something to tell you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope you're enjoying this mini-sequel so far. It's really nice to write some fluff and some family moments without any villains breathing down ours necks (for the moment, at least). I have a few more days off before I start my summer job, which is longer hours and more exhausting than my regular job, so if I can't finish chapter 3 before Monday then I'll probably finish it next weekend! I'm trying my hardest to keep this series to 6 chapters and to have it all finished by September so we can dive into the big sequel and get back to Emma freaking out about being pregnant again!

"What about a stripper?" Ruby suggests.

Emma, standing at the kitchen counter, snorts but keeps her back turned and her attention focused on the cookie dough she's transferring from bowl to baking sheet.

"What's a stripper?" Will asks.

"It's someone who takes off their clothes and dances for money," Ruby says.

Before Will can decide if stripping is a viable job option, Snow says, icily, "There aren't even any strip clubs in Storybrooke, Ruby."

"Yea? And whose fault is that, Mrs. Mayor?"

"Technically Regina's since it's her Curse that created this town. _Twice_."

Emma risks a glance behind her. She catches the edge of Snow's withering glare and turns quickly away again.

"Do you _really_ want a strip club in Storybrooke?" Snow asks.

"I don't know. Maybe," Ruby says, shrugging. "Magic Mike made it look pretty fun—Coyote Ugly too."

"Magic Mike is a _movie_ , Ruby. And Coyote Ugly took place in a bar, not a strip club. I'm pretty sure _real_ strip clubs are a lot less-"

"Wait, wait, wait—back up. You've seen Coyote Ugly?"

"Yes."

"You?"

"Yes."

"Like _, you_ you? Or Mary Margaret?"

Snow heaves a long-suffering sigh but doesn't respond. She's doing some sort of intricate rainbow cookie that involves several rolls of differently colored sugar dough and half the kitchen table. Ruby, Will, and Belle are crammed around the other half, working on mixing the brownie batter and dyeing the vanilla frosting for the cupcakes as maroon as possible.

Emma, foolishly, volunteered to run the bake sale for Ian's school soccer team.

Actually, it's more like she came up with the idea of having a bake sale in the first place and now she's stuck running it.

It's tomorrow morning, bright and early at the first game of the season, and Emma's freaking out a bit.

Because she pretty much forgot all about it.

Which is why her mom, Ruby, Belle, and Will are spending their Friday nights as her assistant pastry chefs in her kitchen which she's literally thanking baby Jesus for because it's large enough to accommodate this shit.

"Anyway," Ruby continues. "You could still be a private stripper, Will. You know, the guy that shows up at bachelorette parties dressed like a cop."

" _Ruby_ -"

"Or you could just be a cop," Emma says, thinking of all the deputy positions she desperately needs to fill, before every small time criminal in Storybrooke realizes that two Sheriffs, a deputy, and some dudes with bows are the only thing currently protecting the town's 80,000 residents.

"There's always the library," Belle says. "I still need an assistant to fill Henry's position."

"I don't know how to read."

Emma hears an elbow that can only be Ruby's elbow hit a pair of ribs that must be Will's, judging by his grunt.

"Shut up," Ruby says. "Yes you do."

"You don't know that."

"I literally heard you _yesterday_ reading Granny's menu and complaining about the prices."

"That was numbers. Numbers are different than letters-"

Ruby smacks him again.

"Fine," Will says. "I can read. I just don't _like_ to read."

"You don't have to actually _read_ the books to work in a library."

The conversation devolves from there, and Emma tunes it out. Finding Will a job is a mission that's been going on for several days and will probably continue for a few more. Emma was serious about offering him a position as a deputy the first time she asked, but he's clearly not interested so she only ever brings it up now halfheartedly in the vain hope he'll change his mind.

She finishes balling the cookie dough onto the tray, puts the tray in the oven, and sets the timer.

Behind her, the others are bent diligently over their tasks, their discussion apparently having reached a conclusion.

Emma picks up the mixing bowl and the spoons she was using, but pauses on her way to dump them into the sink, a familiar, cold tingle creeping down her spine.

"It's quiet," she says.

An hour ago, Ian and Rowan were laughing in the yard together, their giggles punctuated by the sound of the soccer ball Emma already regrets buying hitting the side of the house. Now, there's only silence.

Belle and Ruby look up, confused—apparently silence is not an omen in their house, but for Emma silence means something's about to explode or someone's about to run out of the bathroom with their face full of blood and shaving cream.

"I'm gonna check on the kids."

Twilight's gathering, and it's nearly full dark outside. Emma's mind doesn't have time to conjure up all the ridiculous possible scenarios for why Ian and Rowan are mysteriously silent, however, because she finds them the moment she steps out of the front door and onto the porch.

They're sitting on the swing together, Rowan with her legs folded and Henry's Nintendo DS in her lap, and Ian with his knees drawn up. He's leaning as closely over Rowan as he can without actually touching her, chewing absently on one of the drawstrings of his hoodie.

"Hey," Emma says.

Ian acknowledges her with some sort of mumble, but Rowan looks at her and smiles, gray eyes bright beneath delicate, barely-there eyebrows.

"Whatcha guys doin'?" Emma asks.

"Playin' Pokémon," Ian says, eyes glued to the screen in Rowan's lap. He never convinced either her or Killian to download Pokémon GO to their phones, but Henry scrounged up his old Nintendo DS and some Pokémon games and bequeathed them unto Ian before he left for Northeastern.

"Oh. How's it going?"

"Rowan just got a Chimchar."

"It's the _cutest_!" Rowan declares, and she and Ian exchange smiles as if sharing a private joke.

"Nice," Emma says appreciatively, as if she knows anything about Pokémon.

What she _actually_ thinks is "nice" is how well Ian and Rowan play together—meaning, without causing any property damage. And the goo-goo eyes Ian thinks no one notices are kind of adorable too.

Emma steps around to the other side of the swing and takes the empty space beside Ian, grateful to be off her feet and out of the heat of the kitchen.

It's the middle of September, the days are growing shorter, the air's crisper, and although summer is definitely over, it doesn't quite feel like real fall yet. Case in point, Ian: he's wearing a hoodie but he's also wearing gym shorts and his feet are bare.

Emma's not much better. She still wears shorts as often as she can, reluctant to let go of summer, dreading the winter ahead. From what she remembers Storybrooke is colder and snowier than Boston—which will be fun for Sarah Fisher, but not totally awesome for Emma.

Ian turns to her, changing the angle of his legs from pointing at Rowan to pointing at Emma. He's got a half-healed scrape on one knee, and what Emma's pretty sure are permanent grass stains on both.

"When's my dad coming back?" he asks.

Emma lays her arm along the back of the swing and tugs Ian's hood off of his forehead just enough to brush her fingers through his bangs; his hair's getting long again, creeping over his ears and brow. It's kinda cute though, and it suits him as well as shorter hair suits him, so Emma's letting it do its thing for the time being.

"He'll be here in a little bit," she says. "He's at work."

Killian is at the bar.

 _His_ bar.

Pride blooms in Emma's chest, and she can't stop the smile that spreads across her face.

The whole bar thing sort of...fits him. She had wondered—idly, because she wasn't super concerned about it—what he might end up doing, and she had honestly thought it would be sailing lessons or even him opening up some sort of self-defense studio.

Him renting a bar surprised her, but the moment his words sunk in Emma knew it was right. After all, running a bar can't be that much different than running a pirate ship, right? A pirate ship is basically a floating tavern—a floating tavern that occasionally attacks other floating taverns and slaughters all its occupants, but still.

(Killian did _not_ appreciate her analogy.)

Mostly, Emma's just happy that Killian's settling into the town. She wouldn't have cared what he ended up doing as long as what he was doing made him happy and gave him a sense of purpose.

She knows he's dedicated to being Ian's dad, but she also knows Killian's not the type to sit still.

Which is probably where Ian gets it from.

Emma stays with Ian and Rowan until she hears the timer on the stove go off; she goes inside briefly to take the cookies out of the oven, set them aside to cool, and coordinate a baking schedule for Snow's cookies and the brownies.

She returns to the porch carrying three chocolate chip cookies in a napkin just in time to see Killian walk through the front gate and start up the sidewalk.

His hair is blacker than the nighttime darkness around him, his hook gleaming faintly, his face and hand a pale smudge growing larger. He steps onto the porch, passing from the gloom of the yard and into the warm light spilling from the house, and grins.

"Hello," he says. He's back to wearing long-sleeved button-downs and vests, and although Emma mourns his bare arms she's truthfully just as attracted to him dressed as he is.

She might even be _more_ attracted to him this way.

"Hey," she greets with a smile.

"Hi, dad!"

"Hey there, lad."

"Hi, Mr. Killian."

Killian tucks his chin down and says, "Hullo, Rowan," in a voice eerily reminiscent of Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh. It's a thing they do. Rowan giggles at the way he says her name and then Killian tugs playfully on one of her tawny-colored curls before bending to kiss Ian's forehead.

"Playing Pokémon?" he asks as he shuffles sideways along the porch towards Emma's side of the swing, bending politely to inspect the Nintendo DS.

"Yea!" Ian says. "Rowan's really good! She just caught a Starly and a Bidoof with her Chimchar."

"Mm, impressive," Killian hums, but he throws Emma a bewildered, helpless look that he knows only she'll be able to see and then squeezes onto the swing beside her.

He kisses her cheek lightly, a touch of soft lips and coarse stubble. If it was just Ian there he would have kissed her soundly on the lips; he tends to be more reserved when there's a wider audience and especially so when that audience is 10 or under.

"How did it go?" Emma asks, shifting so she's tucked more firmly against his side. Every part of her that's touching him is instantly warmed.

Killian's eyes widen briefly, but he says, "It was fine. It's just a lot to take in." He's been meeting Granny in the evening, learning all the ins and outs of running a modern business. "Some aspects are similar to managing a ship, but some aspects are entirely unfamiliar."

He side-eyes her, probably waiting for her to make some reference to her "floating tavern" analogy, but she respects the fact that he absolutely hates it, and asks, "Did she set you up with some suppliers?"

"Aye. I'll meet her, erm, _straw and napkin_ guy on Monday. He's apparently different from the glassware guy."

"What about the actual alcohol?"

Killian scrubs his hand through his hair. "It seems that I'll need at least two vendors—one specifically to service the taps, and the other to provide alcohol by the bottle. Apparently there's no one here that does both. I might need a third if I decide to serve..." Here he grimaces, then spits, " _Specialty drinks_."

Emma snorts and pats his chest. "You can probably ditch the whole specialty drink thing," she says. "That's sort of the Rabbit Hole's game. I think you'll be fine with just the regular stuff—beer, hard alcohol, and a few mixers. I think there's only like five mixed drinks that most people actually even care about anyway."

"You think so?"

Emma shrugs. "Yea. And if you decide later that you want to add more then you can always add more."

He kisses her again, on the tip of her nose. His lips linger against her skin and she finds her eyes drifting shut, her entire being focused on the feel of his lips and the warmth of his breath and that one square millimeter of skin.

"Something smells good," he says.

Her eyes fly open and she sees he's looking pointedly at the cookies she's holding.

"Oh, yea," she says with a laugh. "I totally forgot. I've only got three though; wanna split one with me?"

"Sure."

Emma passes one cookie to Rowan and one cookie to Ian and breaks the last one in half for her and Killian to share.

"How's the bake sale going?" he asks.

"It's going."

"Are you finished?"

"No, I just sort of, um, left." She peeks over her shoulder through the window. Ruby's scraping the cookies Emma left to cool off the baking tray and onto a plate, Snow's doing the toothpick test on the brownies, and Belle's smacking the hand Will has in the frosting container with a rubber spatula.

They're clearly handling it, but Emma should get back inside. She's supposed to be in charge, and she doesn't want Ruby, Snow, or Belle to think she abandoned them.

As she stands to go she asks, "Have you thought about what you want to call the bar yet?"

"Aye. Something with 'Swan' in it."

"Ugh, no."

Killian chuckles and eats his cookie.

-/-

When all the baked goods are stored in containers and hidden away in the cabinet Ian doesn't yet know is Emma's hiding spot cabinet, the six of them spend the evening gathered around the kitchen table talking, discussing everything from Will's current job predicament ( _"I still stay he should be a stripper."_ ) to what Killian should name the bar.

"What about something with 'Swan' in it?" Snow suggests excitedly.

"Alas," Killian laments, "Emma already rejected that proposal."

"What about The _Drunken_ Swan?" Will says, his caterpillar eyebrows waggling suggestively in what might be some sort of mating dance.

"No," Emma says flatly.

"The Drunken Duck, then?"

"No."

"Let's move away from birds," Killian says.

"Okay. The Drunken Goat."

"No," Emma repeats.

"The Three-Legged Goat? The Randy Goat?"

" _No._ "

"Seriously, Scarlet," Ruby hisses. "What's wrong with you?"

Belle, the voice of reason, pipes, "It should be something to do with ships, like The Captain's Quarters or Safe Harbor or something."

"Ooh," Snow says. "How about The Stern and Forecastle?"

Killian blinks and tilts his head thoughtfully. "That's not bad," he says.

Emboldened, Snow continues, "The Deckhand? The Mainmast? The Bilge?"

Will smirks suddenly and opens his mouth, but before he can utter whatever's on his mind (Emma would bet her brand new pension that it's _Poop Deck_ ), David arrives fresh off the closing shift at the station bearing two 6-packs of Samuel Adams Octoberfest.

The night ends just before midnight. Belle excuses herself to the bathroom as everyone's donning their shoes and jackets and returns from upstairs having discovered Ian's contribution to Emma's decorating scheme.

"Did you know there's a T-Rex eating a toothbrush up there?" she asks.

"I'm aware," Emma says.

Ian added a few personal touches to "his" bathroom, apparently inspired by the dinosaur-patterned towels that she found. The big additions were a plastic T-Rex and a plastic brontosaurus—he stuck his toothbrush down the T-Rex's throat and put the toilet paper roll over the brontosaurus's neck.

David carries a sleeping Rowan out to Ruby and Belle's minivan. Ian didn't want to be left out of what the adults were doing, so he stayed in Killian's lap until he passed out, and after they all say their goodbyes at the front door, Killian carries Ian up to bed.

Emma follows, turning out the lights as she goes. She reaches out with her magic and checks that all the doors and windows on the first floor are closed and locked—a nifty little trick she honed at the Apprentice's house, along with a spell inscribed invisibly around all entry points that acts as an alarm system.

"Are you staying tonight?" Ian asks, as Killian plops him down on the bed and pulls his sweatshirt over his head by the sleeves.

Killian glances subtly at Emma, who nods.

"Aye, lad, I'm staying."

It's pointless, him asking. Emma never denies him if he asks, and even if he doesn't ask Emma usually invites him to stay. It's dumb, but it's the dance they're currently doing.

"Here, put these on," Killian says, handing Ian a pair of pajamas and waiting patiently for Ian's t-shirt and shorts in return—he's fussy when it comes to orderliness, and while he usually expects Ian to be responsible and take care of his own messes, he never fails to make an exception if it's laundry and it's way past Ian's bedtime.

Ian collapses onto the pillows, says "Goodnight," and rolls over. His feet are filthy from running around barefoot all afternoon but it's already a lost cause so Emma just flips the blankets over his legs so they're out of sight and leaves it be.

They close Ian's door and go to the bedroom, where they clean up a little bit and change into their pajamas.

Killian leaves his brace for last, and Emma moves to help him, easing the worn leather from his wrist and setting it aside, then applying her fingers to his skin.

He was hesitant to let her touch him like this at first, but now he doesn't resist; he watches her silently, the twitches of his lips and eyebrows and the gradual relaxing of his shoulders his only form of communication as she kneads the muscles or ligaments or whatever's in his arm from blunted wrist to elbow.

"I'm proud of you," she murmurs.

He goes rigid for a moment. Emma doesn't stop massaging his wrist. She gets it. He's not used to praise; more accustomed to the opposite.

"For what, Swan?" he says finally, quietly.

"You know, the bar and everything."

He shakes his head.

"I'm serious, Killian. It's a big deal."

She could say more. She could say how she loves that he picks up Ian from school every afternoon; how he sits with him at the kitchen table and helps him with his homework; how they read together, whether it's a bedtime story or the Nintendo DS manual or just whatever book Killian has in his hands when Ian jumps into his lap; how he observed Ian's soccer practices and watched a bunch of YouTube videos and came up with drills for Ian to run through in the backyard.

She could say it's everything she ever wanted for Ian.

She could say she had already fallen for him well before he became Ian's dad, that she thought that was it but that seeing him with Ian opened up an entirely new avenue of _falling for Killian_ that Emma didn't know existed.

But she doesn't.

She's saving that speech for when she asks him to move in.

Which will be, you know, eventually. Just not now. Emma's not ready. It's very _permanent_ and she's just...

Not ready.

He sleeps here almost every night and he has a key, but he asks permission to stay and he always lets her know he's coming over before he actually comes over.

And that feels safe.

Emma's in control. Killian's letting Emma be in control. He's there but he doesn't push her. They both know where things are heading, but he lets her proceed at the pace she's comfortable with.

When they get into bed he fits himself to her back, tangling his legs with hers, wrapping his arms around her waist, and tucking his face into her hair.

"I love you, Swan."

She takes his hand and tugs it more firmly around her middle. "I love you too."

-/-

The next morning is a whirlwind.

Emma has to get Ian out of bed and dressed and get to the field before the games start at 8am in order to set up the table for the bake sale; parents start arriving around 7:30, and to Emma's great relief most of them drop something off, either homemade or store bought—and those who don't donate wander over and buy a donut or a brownie.

She's the mother of a kid with a walnut allergy, so it's a now-ingrained habit to ask the donors of homemade treats about the ingredients, and the customers about allergies. Most parents look at her like she's a bit strange, but one dad drops off eggless chocolate chip cookies, and one mom has a daughter with a peanut allergy that Emma happily directs to the totally-peanut-free rainbow sugar cookies that Snow made. It feels nice to not be the only parent in Storybrooke thinking about those things.

The first game is the U5 game, which is a straight half-hour of twenty tiny kids running in circles kicking the ball vaguely in the direction of either goal.

Rowan's out there in a green penny, her ponytail of thick reddish curls a standout in the crowd. She's sticking tentatively to the fringes, kicking the ball only if it happens her way—she's got a powerful kick though, and every time she gets a hold of the ball she sends it flying and all the other players scrambling.

Ian's game, the U6/7 game, is right after. Belle volunteers to run the bake sale table while Emma watches, so she goes and finds Killian, her parents, and Sarah Fisher on the bleachers.

Sarah scoots over so Emma can sit between her and Killian. Since she arrived in Storybrooke and started using her magic she's been looking decidedly younger, the lines of her forehead and around her mouth smoothing out, the silver of her hair retreating and pale gold taking its place.

Emma wonders if that will happen to her too—it would be kind of nice to have people telling her she looks 29 when she's 50, which, now that she's turning 36 in a month, is a lot closer than it used to be.

"I told Tiana that you signed Ian up for soccer," Sarah says as Emma settles on the bench beside her. "And when Tiana told Sienna about it Sienna demanded she be signed up for soccer too."

"Of course," Emma says. Ian and Sienna grew up very closely, practically like cousins; what one of them did the other one usually wanted to do too. "Maybe they'll play on the same team together one day."

"I hope so. It all depends on...well, that all depends," Sarah says, and smiles kindly.

Emma knows what she was about to say: _It all depends on the Black Fairy_.

The Black Fairy and whether or not they can defeat her.

Whether or not _Emma_ can defeat her.

It's a constant throbbing in the back of her mind, the knowledge that the bitch is going to return one of these days and want some sort of showdown.

Or maybe a showdown is just inevitable—that whole Final Battle bullshit or whatever. Emma doesn't really know. She sort of tunes out all the doomsday talk whenever it gets brought up.

All she can do is focus on honing her magic and coming up with ten thousand contingency plans for how to keep Ian safe.

Tiana is her Plan A.

The moment the Black Fairy shows up Ian is getting shipped to Boston to spend some quality time with his Aunt Tiana.

The U6/7 game is only slightly less chaotic than the U5 game.

Ian, being on the younger end of the spectrum, is one of the smallest kids on the field. He does not, however, let his size stop him from tangling with even the largest of the 7-year-olds. Emma's not even remotely surprised—she's seen him get hit in the mouth with a baseball and stubbornly refuse to leave the field, so the sight of him going shoulder-to-shoulder with a kid twice his size doesn't faze her.

Killian, on the other hand, is frozen, the giant peanut butter cookie Emma snagged for him hovering halfway to mouth, uneaten and forgotten.

"I didn't realize soccer was so physical," he says.

"I don't think it's supposed to be," Emma counters. "I think all the falling down and kicking each other is just because they have zero coordination."

As she says it, two kids on the same team—Ian's team—miss the ball and nail each other in the shins instead. A third player swoops in and takes the ball, carrying it a few feet up the field before kicking it ahead—right into Ian's face.

David lets out a groan of sympathy from down the bench but Killian jolts out of his seat. Emma grabs a handful of his shirt and pulls him back down.

"He's fine," she says. "See?"

Ian's already rolling back to his feet, completely unperturbed. He gets the ball and runs with it—as smoothly as Emma's seen him do in the yard with Killian—only to be tripped almost immediately.

Killian lets out a strangled shout. Emma keeps a tight hold on his shirt, just in case.

"I don't like this," Killian grumbles, after Ian's regained his feet again.

"Wait until he starts hockey," Emma mutters.

Ian's team wins 1-0, the lone goal scored by Leo, Ian's little red-headed friend from Misthaven House. While they're waiting for the coach to dismiss the kids, Emma looks across the field and sees Regina standing with Robin, Will, and Roland. She catches Robin's eye and waves; Robin, Will, and Roland wave back, but Regina pretends not to see her.

Emma snorts softly to herself.

 _Typical_ , she thinks.

But whatever.

She's been doing her best to avoid Regina, so it only makes sense that Regina would be doing the same.

After a few minutes, Ian trots over with Rowan in tow. He doesn't give any of them a second to congratulate him on his performance before he bursts, "Can me and Rowan go get something from the bake sale?" He's got a smudge on his cheek that could be dirt or could be a bruise from getting his face smashed by a soccer ball.

Emma turns to Killian. "Do you have cash?" she asks.

"Aye."

"Do you mind taking them?"

"Of course not, love. Is—what can Ian have?"

"Hm? Oh. Ask Belle. I already told her what to watch out for. I don't think there was anything with walnuts in it when I left though."

"Alright, Swan," he says, and reaches for Ian's hand.

"Tell Belle I'll be there in a minute."

"Will do, love."

He ends up with Ian attached to his hand and Rowan holding to his hook. Emma watches them wend their way through the mob of parents and kids until he's lost in the crowd before addressing her parents.

"Are you guys going to stay for Roland's game?" she asks.

"We're staying for all of the games, actually," Snow says.

"Really? Why?"

"Well, we sort of sponsored the kids at Misthaven that wanted to play, so we have to show our faces for the first game."

"If not the entire season," David adds with a grin.

"You guys are really sneaky, you know that?" Emma says, but she smiles. She was kinda pissed about how much the school uniforms cost until her mom told her they cut a deal with the uniform company so that a percentage of every uniform purchase went towards buying uniforms for the kids at Misthaven.

Emma may or may not have subsequently gone out and bought Ian a few extra school polos and a sweater vest for the winter.

What her parents are doing...it means a lot to her. And she really appreciates the way they do it so under-the-radar and completely selflessly.

She wishes there _wasn't_ a group home, that every one of those kids had a family to call their own, but at the very least they're somewhere where they're well-taken care of and have her ridiculous parents as benefactors.

Emma parts ways with her parents and walks Sarah to her car.

"Thanks for coming," she says.

"You don't have to thank me, Emma. He's like my grandson—the fact that he knows his _real_ grandparents now doesn't change that."

There had been a moment, right at the very beginning, when Emma had feared there might be a rivalry between her mom and Sarah. They had proven that fear completely irrational; at least once a week Emma asked her mom out to lunch only to be told that Snow already had plans with Sarah.

Emma says goodbye to Sarah and heads to the bathroom, which is thankfully an actual building with stalls and a sink and not just a line of Porta Potties. When she's finished she starts back towards the bake sale table, rolling up her metaphorical sleeves as she goes—there's still three games left until the day's over and Emma intends to sell every cookie and cupcake there is, because the alternative is taking it home herself and having to keep both Killian and Ian away from them.

"Emma!"

Emma blinks and slows her steps. She thinks she heard someone calling her name but she could have imagined it.

"Emma!"

Her head swivels, seeking the source. It's difficult with so many people milling around.

"EMMA!"

The crowd parts suddenly, as if by magic, and there's Killian, crouching beside one of Emma's Top 5 Worst Nightmares: Ian in anaphylaxis.

She starts running, trailing a stream of curses, a giant fist squeezing her heart.

They first found out Ian was allergic to walnuts when he was 3 and he ate some of Henry's maple walnut ice cream. He broke out in hives then, and Emma took him to the ER.

When he was 4 one of his preschool buddies shared one of his snacks from home that happened to have walnuts in it, and two weeks later they ordered dessert at a restaurant that they were told definitely did not have walnuts in it but definitely did anyway.

Ian broke out in hives both times, and Emma gave him some Benadryl and took him to the ER both times.

This isn't hives.

This is swollen eyes and wheezing and possibly other symptoms that Emma can't spot from ten feet away.

Benadryl isn't going to cut it this time.

"Emma?"

Killian's face is drained of color and he might be shaking.

"Emma, what do we do?"

" _Mom_ ," Ian moans pitifully.

"Fuck," Emma says.

-/-

They rush to hospital and two hours, one examination in the emergency room, and one shot of epinephrine later, Ian's fast asleep.

It wasn't as dire of a situation as it had seemed at the time, but Whale still gave them a prescription for an EpiPen that Emma and Killian will now need to have on hand at all times.

Emma sent her parents home. They were hovering worriedly at the hospital and it was making Emma claustrophobic. Belle called and apologized profusely, told Emma that the cookie Ian ate was from a container that must have shown up while she was helping a customer; she had no idea it had walnuts in it when she sold it to Ian.

Emma tells her it's fine, that she's doesn't care. The world is chaos. Accidents happen. She knows no one put walnuts in their cookies on purpose to make her kid sick. It was just misfortunate, and the only thing that matters is that Ian's okay.

After they pick up the EpiPen from the pharmacy they take Ian home. Killian carries him the whole time, as if afraid to let him go.

Emma's emotionally exhausted, drained and empty, so when Killian crumples onto the couch with Ian still in his arms, Emma crumples up right beside them.

She leans into Killian and snuggles her face into his shoulder. Ian's head is on Killian's other shoulder. His eyelids are still puffy, his cheeks blotchy, the smudge Emma noticed earlier definitely a bruise.

In short, he looks like an absolute disaster.

"I think I'd rather watch Ian get hit in the face with a thousand soccer balls than watch him go through that again," she says.

"Agreed," Killian mumbles.

Emma reaches out and pulls her fingers through his sweat-and-dirt caked hair.

The school nurse is going to need an EpiPen, and Emma's gonna have to be That Mom that makes the school send a note home to parents about bringing walnuts or walnut-contaminated foods to school. But she doesn't really mind. Getting on everyone's nerves is worth Ian never having that severe of an allergic reaction again.

Besides, she's pretty sure half the school saw Ian's face blow up like a balloon anyway.

"This kid..." she says, and shakes her head. She's losing count of all the times she's watched him get hurt and/or nearly die. She feels like he's earned some sort of emergency room customer rewards card or some frequent flyer miles or something.

"Aye, but he's a tough lad," Killian says, with a hint of pride in his tired voice.

Emma knows he's right. When Ian gets hurt he either brushes it off or gets annoyed—when Whale had pried open Ian's swollen eyes to check his pupil dilation Ian had just glared balefully.

But just because her kid doesn't cry every time he skins his knee doesn't make it any easier for Emma to witness.

Still, what's she supposed to do? Put her kid in a bubble?

Emma sighs and closes her eyes. "I think you should learn to drive," she says. "You know, in case of emergencies."

Killian grunts, but replies, "Aye. I was thinking the same thing."

"Alright. Let's make a deal."

"A deal?"

"Mmhm," Emma hums, eyes still closed. "You learn how to drive, and I'll figure out how to teleport once and for all."

His lips brush her forehead. "It's a deal, Swan."

-/-

Emma falls asleep without meaning to, and wakes up to the sound of someone knocking on the front door. Killian's arm is heavy around her shoulders, but when she looks up his eyes are open and alert. She can feel the muscles of his chest tensed beneath her fingers.

"Your parents?" he asks.

"I don't know. Maybe. Or maybe the dream I was just having came true and it's the pizza delivery guy."

She extricates herself from beneath Killian's arm and stumbles blearily to the door.

It's not her parents, and it's not pizza.

It's Regina.

"Hi," she says, when Emma opens the door.

"Hi," Emma returns automatically, before her brain can really process what she's seeing.

"Can I come in?"

"Uh, yea."

Emma jumps aside and Regina steps into the house. She rotates slowly on her heel, eyes raking every inch of the house that's visible, likely taking in everything from the teal stove to the photographs on the mantel to Killian's wary expression before she finally faces Emma again and says, "I came to apologize."

Emma might still be dreaming.

"Apologize for what?" she says.

"Belle told me what happened. The cookie Ian ate...it was one of mine."

Emma's mouth un-sticks with an audible click, and her eyebrows climb so far up her forehead that she can feel her skin straining to pull them back down. "Oh," is all she can manage.

Regina's gaze plummets to Emma's knees. "When I dropped them off at the bake sale Belle was busy so I just put them on the table and left. I didn't know I should have told her there were walnuts in them. I'm...I'm sorry."

Emma shifts on her feet and looks past Regina, to Killian. He stares back, unimpressed, which is _not_ helping the mix of emotions she's currently battling.

Emma knows she's still resents Regina—for a lot of things. But she also knows she has to do a better job of keeping a few things in mind: 7 years ago, Regina sacrificed her relationship with Henry to save the town, and even though she sort of lost points (in Emma's mind, at least) for what she and Neal did to get Storybrooke back, Emma has to remember that Regina's currently carrying a head full of memories of her spending 6 years as Neal's prisoner.

Plus, Emma has to acknowledge that apologizing is not something that comes easy to Regina—hell, maybe whatever Robin sees in her isn't just a delusion after all. Maybe Regina has changed.

"It's okay," Emma says, forcing herself to refocus on Regina. "It was an accident."

Regina takes a deep breath and looks up. "Is Ian...is he okay?"

"He will be."

Regina nods and pauses her hand-wringing to dig in the massive purse hanging from one shoulder. After a moment of rummaging she produces a pint of strawberry ice cream from Ava's.

"I brought this for him," she says. "Robin said it's Ian's favorite, and that Ava knows about his allergy."

"It is, and she does." Emma takes the ice cream from Regina. Somehow—she's assuming magically—it's as cold as if freshly pulled from the freezer.

"I have these too," Regina says, and reaches into her bag a second time to pull out two more pints of ice cream, one mint chocolate chip and the other cookie and cream. "Ava told me these ones are okay too."

-/-

When Ian wakes up Emma brandishes the pints of ice cream at him and says, "Feel like having ice cream for dinner?"

Ian grins.


	3. Chapter 3

"Remind me again why we're doing this in the cemetery?" Will asks, peering through the car windows at the mist-shrouded graveyard beyond.

"Because there's no risk of hurting anyone," David replies. "Everyone here's already dead."

"Except for the four of us," Killian reminds him—and Will, because Will's currently in the driver's seat, clutching the wheel with white-knuckled hands.

Robin, sitting in the backseat beside Killian, says, "Perhaps it would be safer if Killian and I stepped outside the vehicle and waited for Will to finish."

"Hey!" Will snarls, glaring at Robin's reflection in the rear-view mirror. "I sat back there and kept my mouth shut yesterday while _you_ crawled through town like a bloody turtle, mate!"

"I may be slow, Scarlet, but at least _I_ didn't hit a mailbox."

"Thus, the cemetery," David mutters, one hand indicating the sweeping expanse of crumbling headstones and fog surrounding them in a gesture that goes completely unnoticed by both Will and Robin.

Killian settles back against the upholstery and presses the button on the door that controls the window, lowering it as far as it will go. The air outside is chilly and damp, but despite the lack of saltiness it reminds him of the sea in autumn—if he closes his eyes while Will drives he might even be able to imagine he's sailing.

The change in weather has been refreshing, not only because Killian prefers the cooler seasons but because the colder temperatures have afforded him a much-appreciated return to long sleeves. The newest addition to what he still refers to in his mind as his "modern' wardrobe is a new leather jacket, black like his old coat but much shorter and with zippers instead of buttons; he's not sure how the jacket will fare in the winter, when Maine is "fucking arctic"—Emma's words, not his—but for now it's perfect.

He smiles to himself, abruptly reminded of how Emma likes to sleep with all the windows in the bedroom cracked open precisely two inches, but with an entire mountain of blankets on top of her.

_"I like the fresh air," she says._

_"Aye, but you hate the cold."_

_"That's what the blankets are for."_

_"Why open the windows in the first place if it means you'll need seven blankets to stay warm?"_

_"Ok, first of all it's only three blankets, and secondly, I don't know—it's just cozier that way."_

Ian sleeps similarly, only he prefers to be bundled tightly from ears to thighs and with just his bare legs exposed.

They spend another hour in the cemetery taking turns behind the wheel with David guiding them. Killian drives last. He's grateful that he had a full week of private driving lessons with David before Will and Robin joined them, so he neither drives too fast nor too slow nor does he hit anything.

Driving is...tolerable.

If he's honest, it's much preferable to horseback, both in terms of comfort and speed, but he derives no actual pleasure from it. It's just a mode of transportation.

At 2:00 they drop Robin and Will off at Robin's house, and at 2:15, just as the skies open up and it begins pouring rain, they pick Ian up from school.

The front doors are open but the teachers and students are still inside, huddled within the entrance, sheltering from the weather. Killian spots Ian's teacher near the front. He taps David's shoulder and David flashes the squad car's red and blue lights. Ian's teacher waves, and then Ian bursts free of the pack. He races across the school yard to the car, splashing through puddles, leaping through the door Killian has open for him and landing square in the backseat.

"Hi!" he says, breathlessly. His hair is sodden and dripping, and the entire front of his uniform is dark with water.

"Backpack off. Seatbelt on," Killian commands through the metal grate that separates the front seat from the back.

Ian shrugs his backpack off obediently and then slides wetly from the middle of the bench seat to the corner. When he's buckled, Killian smiles and asks, "How was school?"

"I saw Roland today!" Ian gushes.

"Oh?"

"Yea! His class has gym before my class and they were late because they made the gym teacher really mad so I saw him getting out of the gym."

"What did his class do to make the teacher so angry?"

"Roland said someone hit him with a basketball."

"On purpose?"

"Yea."

Killian and David exchange glances; earlier Robin told them that there's a group of boys in Roland's class that are a tad...rough around the edges. Killian wonders if they're the ones responsible for the incident Ian just described.

In any case, Killian knows it wasn't _Roland_ that did it, because Roland's a gentle lad that wouldn't hurt a fly—unless of course the fly in question had an archery target on its back and Roland had a bow in his hand, because in that scenario the fly is a goner.

"What did _you_ guys do in gym?" David asks Ian.

Ian grins, a manic gleam appearing in his eyes. " _Floor hockey_."

While David drives, Ian regales them with the play-by-play of what, from Ian's description, sounds like a Stanley Cup Finals game—a phrase Killian was introduced to only recently due to the acquisition of a television and the beginning of preseason hockey. The den is now dedicated almost nightly to watching a sport that Killian finds oddly riveting despite how absurd the concept seemed to him originally.

David takes them to Granny's, where he bids them farewell by flashing the emergency lights atop the squad car once more for Ian's sake.

Killian and Ian stand on Granny's stoop, kept dry by the awning overhead, and wave until David's out of sight, then they pick up their customary afterschool snack—a grilled cheese sandwich and an order of onion rings, which they'll share—and head to the bar.

This has become their routine—well, one of their routines.

Every day Killian picks Ian up from school and they go either to the house or to the bar.

If they go to the house Killian makes Ian a snack and then Ian passes out cold on the couch for twenty minutes; if they go to the bar they get Granny's. An hour of homework follows, and after that Ian and Killian entertain themselves together until Emma's shift ends.

Today is a bar day.

They enter the building through the back door. Killian exchanged the wolf's head keychain for a swan keychain, gold with white enamel. Emma snorted at it, but her reaction softened when Ian exclaimed, "It's a swan! Like me and mom and Henry!" He then proceeded to inform Killian that he needed some sort of pirate emblem to accompany the swan, and Emma's expression told Killian that if he didn't locate such a thing, _she_ would.

Ian sprints ahead the moment Killian opens the door, now familiar enough with the layout to be unimpeded by the lack of light to guide him through the back room and out into the bar proper.

Killian tucks the keys into his vest pocket and follows.

"Do you have any homework?" he calls.

"Mmhm," Ian hums from his favorite perch, one of the two stools at the far, curved end of the bar top, closest to the window.

"Alright, snack and then homework."

"Can I help you with the bar?"

For the past week Ian's been helping Killian around the bar. It wasn't Killian's intention for Ian to assist him, but Ian volunteered anyway. Together they scoured clean the entire first floor and arranged all the furniture. The space actually looks larger now with all the tables and chairs in position, though it's still on the cozy side, likely only able to fit 30 people at max capacity, not including himself.

Granny hinted that there may be the potential (in a year or two) to expand into the adjacent building—currently a small cafe that also pays its rent to Granny—but that's a ways off and depends entirely on whether or not the bar is even successful at all in the first place.

"I just have some counting to do today," Killian says. His glassware and all the other behind-the-bar accoutrements arrived yesterday; according to Granny and her business lessons, he needs to inventory his shipment before stocking and storing it.

"I can count," Ian replies.

"I know you can, lad. But homework comes first. You can help me when you're finished."

"What if you finish counting before I finish my homework?" Ian asks, a whine edging his voice.

"I'll count _very_ slowly." Ian frowns stubbornly, his lower lip jutting out, so Killian adds, "If I finish before you do then we can go to the Jolly Roger and make her a grocery list."

Her supplies were running low, mainly because Killian has been spending so much time at the house that he hasn't bothered to restock her.

"Deal?" Killian asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"Deal!" Ian agrees.

They split the grilled cheese from Granny's. Ian gobbles his portion up as though he's starved, so Killian gives the boy half of his; that fills him up so much that Killian ends up eating all but two of the onion rings.

After they clean up, Ian pulls a workbook from his backpack and slaps it onto the counter. Once Killian sees that Ian's homework is under way, he begins his own task.

The boxes he needs to inventory are in the corner; the basement still requires cleaning, so Killian had the delivery men bring everything into the bar itself. Clipboard and pen in hand, he loses himself in the tediousness of the work, surfacing every now and then to check that Ian's still working or to respond to a request for aid. He's just finishing when Ian hails him for the fourth time that hour.

"Hey dad?"

"Aye, lad?"

"What's your mom's name?"

"Pardon?"

"What's your mom's name?"

Killian sets his clipboard and his pen down on the stack of boxes. "Why do you ask?"

"It's for homework."

"Homework?"

"Yea."

Usually when Ian asks for help with his homework he needs a math problem checked or a word spelled for him—just today Killian had to tell him that 5+3 did _not_ equal 7, and that there was no "z" in "because". When he reaches Ian's side he sees not a spelling book or a math worksheet on the bar top, but a piece of paper titled: _Family Tree_.

 _Oh_ , Killian thinks. The word echoes in his chest, which suddenly feels hollow and cavernous.

On the paper is printed an outline of a tree. At the junction of its leaves and its trunk is a space in which Ian wrote his own name and drew a simple self-portrait; above that is a branching line that connects to _Emma_ on the left and _Killian_ on the right, the names also complete with miniature portraits.

Ian already filled in _David_ and _Snow White_ above another branching line that extends from _Emma_ , and now he's staring up at Killian expectantly, his pencil poised over the blank space where he needs to write the name of his paternal grandparents.

Killian takes a deep, bracing breath, pushing down the pain and summoning a neutral smile. "Saoirse," he says. "My mother's name was Saoirse."

" _Seer-sha_ ," Ian repeats slowly, visibly testing the texture of the name on his tongue. After a moment, he grins. "I like it. It's pretty."

"Aye, it is," Killian agrees.

 _And she was_ _as beautiful as her name_.

Or at least that's how he remembers her—beautiful and kind, warm and with an easy smile. Killian always felt loved and safe when he was in her arms. Perhaps it's just a childhood memory distorted over time—or by the yearnings of a sad, lonely little boy—but he chooses to believe otherwise. He chooses to believe that she was in reality exactly as she exists now in his memories.

Ian turns to his paper, writes an _S_ and then pauses. "How-"

"A," Killian says, patiently. "O-I-R-S-E. Saoirse."

Ian writes the letters, then throws down his pencil and picks up a peach marker. "What did she look like?" he asks, drawing a circle for her face and adding two ears.

"She had red hair."

"Really?"

"Aye."

Ian trades the peach marker for a red one. "Is that why your beard is kinda red?"

Killian finds himself chuckling. "Probably," he says.

Liam resembled their father, but Killian always took after their mother. He remembers her telling him that he looked like _her_ father, whom she always spoke of with both affection and awe.

"What color were her eyes?" Ian asks, hand hovering over his pile of markers.

"Blue."

"Like yours."

"Aye." Killian's eyes are his mother's eyes, not just the color but the shape and their veil of dark lashes. "Yours too."

Ian smiles toothily at him and then adds blue eyes and long black eyelashes to his grandmother's portrait. A nose comes next, then a smile and red lips.

"Perfect," Killian says. "It looks just like her."

His gaze shifts from the drawing to Ian. In addition to his blue eyes, Ian also has Killian's ears and mouth—more gifts from Saoirse Jones.

Killian reaches out and runs one finger lightly along the shell of Ian's ear, along the strange curve that makes both his and Killian's ears seem pointed. Ian giggles and hunches his shoulders in a futile attempt to shield his ear.

"Can I help you count now?"

"You're finished?"

"Uh-huh. I only had spelling and math."

"No, lad, I meant..." Killian trails off, withdraws his fingers from where he's still wriggling them against the crease between Ian's head and shoulder where he can just reach the tip of Ian's ear and lightly taps the blank space on the family tree where Brennan Jones should go. "Don't you want to add my father?"

Ian's shoulders drop. He looks at Killian's finger, then at Killian.

"No," he says.

Killian blinks. "No?"

Ian shakes his head, brow furrowing, mouth pulling into a thin, irate line. "You said he left you."

"Aye, he did."

"Then I don't wanna put him on there. He's a jerk."

Killian opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, and says, "You should still put him on there, regardless."

Killian doesn't know what makes him say it.

Perhaps he doesn't want Ian to grow up with the same hate in his heart that Killian did; perhaps he wants Ian to know where he came from, even if it's not all sunshine and rainbows; perhaps Killian's over it, and acknowledging Brennan Jones in this manner is some sort of growth; or perhaps he just doesn't want Ian to be left out, to be the only one of his classmates with a blank space on their family tree.

Maybe it's none of those things.

Maybe it's a mistake.

Maybe Killian should let Ian have his way—only Ian's already picked up his pencil.

Killian clears his throat. "Brennan," he says, and walks Ian through the spelling, watches him draw another circle with the peach marker. "He had black hair and a black beard, and brown eyes."

He bats a mental hand at the image of his father that his brain conjures up, banishing it, and focuses instead on the portrait Ian's drawing—which is noticeably of lesser quality than the other portraits; Brennan received only two sloppy dots for eyes, a slash for a mouth, and angry eyebrows.

Ian pointedly caps the black marker and sets it down with a snap. He glares at his grandfather's portrait—then his eyes widen.

"What is it?" Killian asks quickly.

"Where am I supposed to put Henry?"

Killian helps him draw a line for Henry. Ian doesn't ask about Neal, and Killian doesn't suggest adding him. When Ian's finished drawing a fairly accurate representation of Henry's latest haircut—which he flaunted when they Skyped him over the weekend—Ian turns to Killian and says, "Can I put _your_ brother on here too?"

"Liam?"

Ian nods, and Killian smiles.

"I think that's a great idea, lad." He shows Ian where to draw the extra line to add Liam, and spells out his name. "Liam...your _uncle_ had curly brown hair and blue eyes."

"Did you two look alike?"

"No, not at all. You would have liked him," Killian says softly, as he watches Ian draw Liam's portrait. "And he would have _loved_ you. He'd be happy you're wearing his ring."

Ian's marker stills. He looks up, and his free hand drifts to the bump beneath his polo that is Liam's ring.

"I wish I could meet him," he murmurs.

Killian sighs. "Me too," he says, then tickles Ian's ear again.

Ian squirms away, and returns to Liam's portrait.

Killian performs a final check of Ian's spelling and math homework, has Ian retry 6+5 and 8+6, then pronounces homework time officially over. Ian cheers and hastily files his homework papers into his school folder, then hops off his stool, sweeping his book and his folder and all his markers along with him and stuffing them into his backpack.

Killian cringes internally but bites his tongue.

 _Baby steps_ , he reminds himself. He's been training Ian to be more mindful of his belongings, but it's a gradual process—technically, all his homework made it safely into his folder, so Killian's going to call that a victory and forget for now that Ian's spelling book just got folded in half and will probably remain that way for the rest of the school year.

"Alright, lad. What shall we do now?"

"Soccer!" Ian crows.

Killian glances at the window. The rain has lightened up, but Killian imagines the yard is likely waterlogged. "I thought you wanted to go to the Jolly Roger and help me make a grocery list?" he says.

"Okay! Yea!"

Ian zips his backpack and puts on his jacket. Killian locates his own jacket and then he and Ian make their way to the back door, turning out the lights as they go. Killian wonders idly if it will always be this easy to convince Ian to do chores and run errands with him, or if he'll eventually be so used to Killian's presence in his life that he outgrows the excitement of simply spending time together.

Secretly Killian hopes Ian never grows out of it, secretly he hopes the lad will still want to do groceries and count napkins with him when he's 30 and Killian's gray and wrinkled.

He grins to himself as he follows Ian through the back room and out the back door.

Side by side they sprint to the Jolly Roger, splashing through puddles as they go, kicking up water and laughing as the rain soaks them.

-/-

Killian texts Emma their location and at 5:30 she picks him and Ian up from the docks.

"How was driving?" she asks as soon as Killian's settled in the front seat beside her.

"It was fine, love," Killian responds, raking his fingers through his wet hair, pushing his bangs off his forehead. "Your father said I could get my license soon. How's teleporting?"

Emma grimaces. "Better, I guess."

"Can you do it yet?" Ian's face appears at Killian's shoulder, his body shoved through the gap between the two front seats.

"Not yet, kid. And put your seatbelt on. C'mon, Ian. I feel like we go through this every time we get in the car now."

Ian shrugs and ducks back into his seat. A moment later the seatbelt clicks.

Killian settles his hand on Emma's knee and squeezes. "You'll get there, love," he says.

"I don't know," Emma huffs. "I'm supposed to, like...let go and trust in my magic. But it's really hard to let go when you're flinging your body into some void. The only time I can let go is when it's too much of an emergency for me to over-think things."

He gives her knee another squeeze, and Emma throws him a smile before returning her attention to the road.

"How was work?" she asks.

"Good. I inventoried the shipment I received yesterday, so tomorrow I can stock everything. Pretty soon it might actually start looking like a real bar."

Emma smiles at him again, only this time it's the ridiculously proud smile she reserves for when they talk about the bar. It's a smile that warms him. It's a smile that's a bit overwhelming, but in a good way.

"So, did you decide on a name yet?"

"Alas, no."

Everyone's been offering him suggestions. Henry texts him daily with new ideas.

_"Happy Endings," Killian reads from his phone._

_"No," Emma says sharply, eyes bulging. "You know what that sounds like."_

_"What?" Ian pipes up from Emma's elbow. "What does it sound like?"_

_"Henry texted me again," Killian says. "He said: Nevermind. Abort mission. Do not use Happy Endings. It sounds like..." Killian clears his throat and moves his phone beyond the reach of Ian's grasping hands. "Well, I won't read what he said it sounds like."_

Secretly, Killian's still leaning towards something with _swan_ in it. In any case, he'll have to make a decision soon as the bar opens in two weeks.

Something constricts in his guts, a nervousness he feels whenever he contemplates that particular aspect of the future. He doesn't want the bar to fail. He doesn't want to fail in front of Emma, in front of Ian.

His worries sit heavily in his stomach all evening, heavier even than the leftover spaghetti and meatballs they have for dinner.

Emma notices and sends Ian into the den after they clear the table; he bolts, too excited to be escaping dish drying duty to question his dismissal. Emma waits until he's out of earshot before turning to Killian.

"Hey, what's on your mind?" she asks gently.

There's a crease between her delicate brows that Killian wants to smooth over with his thumb. Or his lips.

"Just thinking about the bar, love," he says, shaking his head and forcing his mouth into a smile. "That's all."

But Emma sees past his half-truth.

She steps into him and slips her arms around his chest. Killian's cheek falls to her hair automatically. He remembers Ian telling him once that Emma's hair is magic, that if he's sad all he has to do is put his face in his mother's hair and his worries disappear.

Killian gets it.

Even after she's spent a day at the station Emma's hair still smells pleasantly like the floral shampoo she uses, and as Killian inhales the scent he feels the knot of anxiety in his stomach loosen, feels the heaviness melt away.

"The bar's gonna be great," she reassures him.

It's not the first time she's spoken those words to him and it won't be the last, but for now it's enough.

Killian nods. "Aye, love. It will be."

"HEY!"

Ian's shout shatters the tranquility of the kitchen. Killian and Emma startle but don't break apart as he slides into the room on his socks and hits the edge of the table.

"Oof," he grunts, then, "Mom! I forgot to show you my family tree."

"Your what?"

In answer, Ian raises one fist. Clutched in it is his family tree paper. He slaps it gleefully onto the table and Emma and Killian circle around until they're standing behind him.

"Oh," Emma says. "You had to make a family tree for school."

"Uh-huh! Dad helped."

Emma studies the paper, her finger tracing the branching lines. She reaches Killian's mother, and halts. "How do you say that?"

" _Seer-sha_ ," Ian replies helpfully.

Emma's eyes meet his questioningly, and Killian realizes he's never told Emma his mother's name. Or his father's, for that matter.

"My mother's name was Saoirse," he says. "My father's name was Brennan."

She smiles. "Those are nice names."

Her gaze returns to the family tree, her finger tracing another line—the one leading to Liam.

"My brother and I were both named after our grandfathers," Killian supplies. "Liam was my father's father, and Cillian was my mother's father."

Emma, still smiling, raises her eyebrows at him. "So there are _three_ generations of Killians?"

"Four," Killian corrects. "I had an uncle Cillian—my mother's only brother. He was older than her."

"Did you know him?"

"No. He and my grandfather were both drowned at sea before I was born."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No need to be sorry, Swan. It was a long time ago, and unfortunately it was a fairly common fate for fishermen at the time."

Although he regrets that he never knew his grandfather and uncle, it's difficult to be saddened by the loss of two people he'd never met.

"After my grandfather and uncle died, my mother met my father," Killian continues. "She was young, poor, without family..."

He doesn't know if his parents were ever in love. He suspects that they weren't, he suspects that he knows their story: a pregnancy, a swift marriage, and 8 years later a man freed from a burden he never wanted in the first place.

Emma's hand finds Killian's behind Ian's back. Their fingers lace, her thumbs strokes his wrist, and Killian feels the dark tide inside of him recede.

"So," she says, lightly. "There are three Killian Joneses—wait, no. I guess your uncle and grandpa wouldn't be Jones, would they?"

Killian grins. "No, they were O'Connells. Cillian O'Connell. I'm the only Killian Jones."

"And I'm the only Killian Swan," Ian says, tilting his head back and beaming at them.

Something flits across Emma's face, some thought or emotion, but it vanishes before Killian can properly identify it, and then she's smiling at him once more.

"Are there any other Liam Joneses or was it just the two?"

She doesn't realize what she's asking, but the breath leaves Killian's lungs anyway, so rapidly it's painful.

It must show on his face, because Emma abruptly shuffles Ian out of the kitchen, saying, "Go put the hockey game on. We'll be there in a few minutes."

She reappears at his side before he can move or even realize precisely what's happening. Her hands grip his arms, guide him to a chair, push him into it. He sits obediently and her hands move to the sides of his head, cradling it.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I know talking about your brother is painful. I'm sorry for bringing it up."

He raises his hand and his hook to her waist and settles both on her hips.

"No, it's not..." He takes a deep breath, swallows. "It's not that."

He lifts his eyes to Emma's. Her gaze is calm and steady, and Killian makes a decision; he made her a promise, and he sees no reason why now is a worse time than any other to make good on that promise.

"There's something I have to tell you, love."

The dark tide creeps back in, rising up his chest, his throat. He has to speak before it chokes him, before he can't breathe.

"Emma, I have two brothers."

Her eyebrows jump up, not in judgment, but in surprise. Still, his gaze drops to her navel; it's easier to speak to her t-shirt.

"After my father left Liam and I, he had another child, a son he named Liam."

"Your dad...abandoned you and your brother, and then went and had another kid with some other woman and named that kid after one of the sons he already had?"

"Aye." Killian takes another deep breath but lets this one out slowly. "This was over a century after he'd abandoned us. Liam was long gone, and for all my father knew, so was I."

"I don't get it. How is that possible? I mean, I know _you_ were in Neverland, but how was your dad not dead?"

"He claimed that after he left my brother and I he travelled to a place called the Land of Untold Stories, where, similar to Neverland, time stands still and no one ever ages."

"And he just...stayed there for a century?"

"That's the gist of it, aye. He hid there until all he reckoned all who would have remembered him were dead. Then he returned to the Enchanted Forest..."

Killian explains, about finding his father impossibly still alive, about his second life, his new son. The words pour out of him, slow at first, then in a rush, faster and faster until he's quaking and Emma's hands cupping his cheeks are the only thing holding him together.

He buries his face against her stomach. "I've never told this to anyone, Swan," he says into her shirt. "The only other person that knows is Nemo."

Her hands, wrapped around his head and shoulders, stroking his hair, pause. "Nemo?"

"Aye. The son he spoke of—the one he needed the help of a mermaid to get a message to—that's my brother."

"So that's what's going on between you two," she says. Her fingers resume their course along his scalp.

"Aye. Nemo found my little brother dying of starvation in an alley near the docks and took him in. By accident I stumbled across their path years later."

"What happened to your dad? Did he abandon your little brother, too?"

Killian goes rigid.

 _Of course_ , a voice inside of him hisses. _You left that part out, didn't you?_

Slowly, he straightens until he can meet her eyes again. "Emma, I killed my father. The moment he told me that he'd named his new son Liam—as though my older brother had never mattered, had never even _existed_...I lost it. I killed him, and then I fled like a coward."

His eyes flicker closed, unable to face her reaction.

 _I don't want to lose you_.

He doesn't say it out loud because he doesn't deserve to.

If Emma wants to leave him he won't stop her, and he won't make her feel guilty for it.

He braces himself for her to pull away, for the emptiness he'll feel when she does—but she doesn't leave. Instead, she wraps her arms around him more tightly, pulling him to her body so that his head rests against her stomach once more.

"I told you that I choose to see the good in you, Killian," she says. "You've come a long way since then. You're not that man anymore."

"How?" he asks, voice breaking somewhere in the middle. "How can you forgive me for something like that?"

"Because I'm not the person you need to be asking for forgiveness from. I'm just the person that sees how good of a dad you are and doesn't want that to end—not just for Ian's sake, but for yours too."

He turns his face into her t-shirt, breathes in the smell of laundry detergent. Killian's trembling. Emma might be trembling as well but Killian's definitely trembling more. "He's coming," he mutters.

"Who?"

"Liam."

"When?"

"I don't know."

He feels her take a deep breath, then she eases her arms from around his shoulders and moves away. Killian watches her warily, fearfully, dreading that this is it, that she's leaving, but she only fetches two glass tumblers from the cabinet and the bottle of rum that she keeps in the house for him.

She pulls out the chair next to Killian's, pours a drink for each of them, and sits down.

"Are you in danger?" she asks, lifting her glass and taking a sip.

Killian wraps his hand around his own glass. "I won't let him hurt you and Ian. I-"

"I'm asking if _you're_ in danger."

His fingers tighten, and he raises the glass stiffly to his lips, swallowing the contents down in one long go. He sets the glass down sharply, and says, "When Liam learns that I'm here, he'll come looking for me."

Emma makes a face. "Is _Nemo_ trying to kill you?"

"No, love. Nemo only wants to be reunited with his son. He believes the two of us can reconcile."

"But you think you can't."

"Liam's already tried to kill me once before."

"You've met him?"

Killian nods.

_I've met him, and in his eyes I saw a familiar demon—the same demon that resides inside of me._

The demon they must have inherited from their father.

"And...you got away?" Emma asks

"Nemo stopped him from putting a knife through my heart. He threw himself in front of Liam's blade and got stabbed for it. That's one of the reasons I was surprised to see him here—I wasn't certain he survived."

Emma fiddles with her glass on the table, idly rotating it by infinitesimal degrees. She's scowling at it, but Killian can tell her thoughts are far away.

"Emma, I'm...I'm serious," he says. "I won't let Liam harm you or Ian."

Her eyes flash dangerously. "Killian, _I'm_ serious. If your brother shows up here trying to kill you I'm gonna kill him first." The heat in her voice is scorching. "I'm sort of done with the whole people-trying-to-hurt-everyone-I-love thing."

Killian lays his hand on the table, palm up. "Hopefully it won't come to that," he murmurs. He flexes his fingers, an invitation. After a moment of hesitation, Emma slips her hand over his.

"I love you," she says. "I won't lose you."

 _I don't want to lose you_.

"I'm not going anywhere, Swan. I told you before: I'm a survivor."

She nods just as Ian's footsteps in the hallway announce his imminent arrival. He enters the kitchen slouched over and trudges to Emma's side, where he slumps into her.

"It's intermission," he says accusingly. "You guys missed the first period,"

"I'm sorry, kid. We were talking."

Ian frowns pitifully.

 _The woes of a 6-year-old_ , Killian muses.

Emma kisses Ian's forehead. "How about I make us all some hot chocolate and we can sit on the porch swing?"

Ian brightens. "Can I bring a book?"

"Uh, it's sort of dark out there."

"I can bring a flashlight too."

"Alright, go for it."

Ian bounds out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

"Put on some warmer clothes, too!" Emma shouts after him.

Killian watches Ian until he's out of sight, the boy's words from earlier echoing in his ears.

_"I wish I could meet him."_

Killian's not ready to let go of this life and this home and this family. He doesn't deserve Liam's forgiveness, but he's selfishly going to ask for it anyway.

"Perhaps...perhaps I should do as Nemo wishes and try to reconcile with my brother," he says.

Emma snorts. "That's a much better idea than letting him try to kill you." She stands and collects the two tumblers. "Can you put the rum away and grab the hot chocolate mix?"

-/-

Outside, the three of them snuggle together on the porch swing and listen to the rain, the soft hiss of it in the air, the patter of it on the roof and in the leaves.

Ian, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled snug around his lead, lays horizontally along the bench with his head in Emma's lap and his socked feet in Killian's. He has a book propped open on his stomach, the Pokémon Super Deluxe Essential Handbook, and in his other hand he has a mini flashlight.

Killian attempted to be amusing by tickling Ian's feet, but he got growled at for his efforts, so now he has his hand safely on Ian's shins.

Emma's quiet, speaking only when Ian reads aloud from his book and requires a response.

Upstairs, after Ian's asleep and they're alone in the bedroom, Killian asks, "Are you angry with me, love?"

She freezes with both hands on the hem of her t-shirt. "Huh? No," she says. "No, I was...actually I was imagining myself in your place."

She pulls off her shirt and deposits it in the hamper, then reaches around her back to unclasp her bra.

"You were?" Killian says absently, momentarily distracted by the sight of her breasts, cream-colored with dark gold nipples. There's a spray of golden freckles over her collarbones, like the night sky strewn with stars.

"Yea. I was trying to—hey, I see you."

Killian snaps his jaw shut and replaces his gape with a smirk. "You can't blame a man for being a bit stunned in the presence of the most gorgeous woman alive."

She rolls her eyes and pointedly puts on her pajamas, an oversized t-shirt that covers her rear and little flannel shorts, then she sits on the bed and pats the mattress beside her.

Killian takes her invitation, his blunted arm snaking around her waist. "I'm sorry, Swan; you were saying you were imagining yourself in my place."

"Yea." She's worrying her lip, staring at the carpet. "Like—not a scenario with my parents or anything...with Neal."

He nudges her encouragingly. "Go on."

"I was imagining if Neal had known about Henry the whole time but still never came looking for either of us and then went and had a kid with some other lady—then acted like he did when he introduced me to Tamara, like it was no big deal that he'd abandoned me and moved on."

"Would you have killed him?"

"It depends. If it was before I met Henry? Yea, I probably would have stabbed him with whatever was closest. But after I met Henry?" She shrugs. "With Henry I had something to live for, someone who depended on me and would have needed me not to go to jail."

"So, what're you saying, Swan?"

She looks at him, her eyes greener than emeralds.

"I'm saying I know what it's like to make bad choices and do terrible things because you have nothing to live for."

A lump forms in Killian's throat. He holds Emma's gaze for as long as he can manage, then nods and looks away, swallowing hard, forcing back the tears stinging his eyes.

"Thank you," he says.

She leans in and kisses him, her lips soft and lingering against his cheek.

They get in bed. Killian props his pillows against the headboard so he can sit up and read, and Emma burrows into his side, seeking as much skin contact as possible, her face nuzzling his bare chest.

"Goodnight, Killian," she sighs.

"Goodnight, love."

He stays awake well after Emma falls asleep, running his fingertips along her arm, soothing himself with the feel of his skin against hers, with her warmth by his side, with the presence of this woman who's not afraid of his past, this woman whose belief in him gives him the courage to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed Brennan's story a little bit because I refuse to give that man a True Love==hope y'all don't mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Emma's cooking pancakes in the kitchen when suddenly there's a nose nuzzling her ear.

"Something smells delicious," Killian says softly.

Emma carefully sets the spatula down and switches off the stove. She didn't even hear Killian walk up behind her, which, she guesses, was his intention.

"It's just from a box," she replies, breathlessly because his lips are trailing across her skin from her ear to her cheek.

"I'm not talking about the pancakes," he whispers, a growl gnawing at the edge of his voice as he presses impossibly feather light kisses to what feels like every centimeter of her existence simultaneously.

She can _hear_ his smile, and that low rumble in his voice—like thunder from a still-distant storm—sends a jolt of electricity down her spine. His hand and hook are resting on her waist and she turns into his arms, her own hands capturing the back of Killian's neck and the small of his back and tugging him closer.

Her body fits against his perfectly, all their soft, hard, and swiftly-hardening parts meeting and melding. She feels his breath leave him, and he regards her with hooded eyes.

"What about the pancakes?"

He says it regretfully, though she knows he doesn't actually give a shit about the pancakes—and neither, honestly, does she right now.

"To hell with the pancakes."

She pushes him, making him back up two steps until he hits the table and is forced to sit down on it. When their lips meet she devours him with a hunger that has nothing to do with the fact that it's nearly 11 and she hasn't eaten breakfast yet. He kisses her back just as fiercely, his chest vibrating with that thunderous rumble. Heat pools in her belly and floods lower, where his growing arousal is pressed to her core, her own sensitive flesh throbbing in sync with her pounding heart.

Sex with Killian is different for Emma than sex has ever been with anyone else.

Her few partners before Killian had been...fine. Neal was her first, and also the only one she had an emotional connection to at the time. The men that came after Neal were purely for physical pleasure, just one-night stands, guys she met wherever and told explicitly what the deal was. They used each other and then parted.

With Neal she'd been too young and too inexperienced to understand if the sex was good or not, and even with all the others Emma never really received a satisfactory answer as to what sex is _supposed_ to feel like.

Until Killian.

Sex with Killian is _good_.

 _Really_ good.

Sure, there have been elbows put in places they shouldn't be and some accidental hair pulling and maybe there was once even a fart that slipped out at a really inopportune moment—not to mention that switching positions mid-fuck is hardly ever _not_ awkward—but when their bodies join and they're in that moment together...it feels right.

It doesn't just feel _good_ , it feels right.

Emma doesn't know if it's a True Love thing or just a regular they-love-each-other thing; it might even just be because she's had more sex during the past few months than she's ever had in her entire adult life, and her body's only now waking up and realizing it's capable of all these new sensations and it's kind of incredible...

Okay, her point is: she's ready to tear Killian's clothes off and ride him on the kitchen table.

She's unbuttoning his shirt and he's half fumbling with the knot on her robe, half trying to hitch her leg up around his hips, but before they can sufficiently undress each other the door flies open, hits the wall with a bang, and three people walk in, chattering noisily.

Emma startles but freezes, some dumb frightened-rabbit instinct locking her muscles, telling her that if she doesn't move, David, Henry, and Ian won't be able to see her.

Obviously, it's hopeless. The kitchen is completely open to the entrance hall and Emma and Killian are in plain view.

She _would_ feel ridiculous, only Killian's also frozen, so at least there's that.

David's the first one to see them. He halts, nearly dropping the two large pumpkins he has tucked under either arm, the toes of his boots straddling the line where the kitchen tiles meet the maple wood flooring. His face spasms, caught between outrage and embarrassment, but before he can settle on a single emotion, Henry—also carrying a pumpkin—collides with him.

It's Columbus Day weekend, and Henry is home for three days. Their original plan was to visit him at Northeastern, but things changed and now the bar's opening tonight. Henry said he couldn't miss _that,_ and that he also missed Ava, so now he's back in Storybrooke.

Back in Storybrooke and probably regretting it, judging by the horrified look on his face.

"You're awake!" Ian's the last one into the house. He trots straight into the kitchen and thumps another pumpkin onto the table, then offers them a smile. "Hi."

"Hi," Emma returns, slowly sliding the leg she wasn't aware she had propped on the table back to the floor. She had a late night at the station, so that morning when Ian woke her up by using her bed—and, accidentally, Killian—as a trampoline, Emma hollered for Henry to take his brother to Granny's for breakfast so she could sleep some more.

From the looks of it they ran into David, and Ian, who's been begging Emma to take him out to Peter Peter's farm for pumpkins since October 1st, decided to convince his grandpa to take him there instead.

"Are we...interrupting something?" David asks.

Emma shrugs and says, "No."

Killian's been staring at the wall over her shoulder since her dad and the boys walked in, but he whips around just as Emma says 'no' and says, "YES."

Which is a mistake, because David's jaw sets and his mouth hardens into a thin line.

Knowing there's now absolutely no chance of the house emptying again anytime soon, Emma sighs and flicks Killian's chest, making him flinch. She steps back, straightening her robe as she does. The heat in her belly is still there, but it removed itself to the back burner, a faint simmer.

Killian, begrudgingly, slides off the table, but stands stiffly, the bulge in his jeans preventing him from tuning around.

Henry's attempting to look anywhere except at her and Killian, David's glowering, and Ian's still smiling in mild amusement. He's walked in on them making out in just about every room in the house at this point, and while he's already told them that he knows they do the baby-making thing (a statement that made Killian go pale) and that if they're going to have another baby he thinks he'd like a sister this time (Killian went impossibly even more pale), Emma doesn't think he knows the exact details of what all goes on during "baby-making", and so he has no real idea what he, Henry, and David just interrupted.

It's because of this that Emma chooses to focus on Ian. "We were just making some pancakes," she tells him, and produces the plate full of perfectly golden-brown pancakes as proof.

Ian's mouth falls open in an ecstatic grin. "I love pancakes!"

"Should we, um, maybe we can come back later?" Henry stammers. "After, uh, _pancakes_?"

He starts pulling Ian towards the door by the hood of his sweatshirt but Ian plants his feet and doesn't budge.

"I want pancakes," he says.

"You just ate," Henry hisses.

"No," Ian retorts. "That was a long time ago."

"That was like _two hours_ ago!"

Surprisingly, David joins Henry and grabs a handful of Ian's jacket. "We should go and let your parents finish their breakfast."

Ian's protest is some sort of wordless howl as he's dragged bodily out of the kitchen by both Henry and David, who are struggling to maintain their grips on both Ian and the pumpkins they're carrying.

Killian huffs and rolls his eyes. "Stay," he says loudly.

David and Henry stop and Ian slips from their grasp; he darts back into the kitchen and around the table so that it's solidly in between him and his abductors. From there he glares a sullen challenge.

Henry ignores him, and looks between Emma and Killian's back. "But-"

"I've lost my appetite," Killian says pointedly, throwing a glare over his shoulder. Emma has to choke down a laugh at his blatant lie—she can see the front of his jeans and he has very clearly _not_ lost his appetite. He bends to kiss her on the cheek, and whispers, "I need to go and have a quick and bracing shower."

His hand squeezes her hip, and then he's striding away, looking very much like a man with a giant erection trapped inside a pair of tight pants. Henry averts his eyes, his face bright red, and David stares at the ceiling until Killian's footsteps disappear up the stairs.

Emma watches Killian leave, thinking longingly of the shower she took last night after work, a shower in which Killian joined her and took it upon himself to very _thoroughly_ help her relax.

With another sigh she turns to look at Ian.

"So," she says. "Pancakes?"

\---

By the time Killian returns to the kitchen, Henry and Ian have managed to convince Emma that the pumpkins they brought home (all fifteen of them) need to be carved immediately.

"What are these for?" Killian asks, quirking an eyebrow at the five pumpkins sitting atop the newspaper-covered table and the ten other pumpkins crowding the counters.

"They're pumpkins!" Ian exclaims.

"Aye, I know what they _are_ ; I'm asking what they're _for_ ," Killian says, dropping his hand onto Ian's head and ruffling his hair.

"They're for making jaggalannerns." Ian grins, revealing another gap in his teeth near the corner of his mouth—he lost a canine and a molar, a process expedited the previous week by a set of rain-slick monkey bars and a shout of, " _Hey, look! I'm Spider-Man!_ "

Killian's brow furrows. "What are jagga-"

" _Jack-o'-lanterns_ ," Henry says, enunciating precisely.

"That's what I said," Ian mutters.

"No, you said-"

Emma clears her throat, drowning out the boys' bickering. "Anyway," she says. "The pumpkins are for carving. It's a Halloween tradition."

Killian blinks, then says, "Ah."

"You know what Halloween is?" David asks.

"Aye. Emma showed me the movie."

Confused, David looks to Emma.

"We watched _Hocus Pocus_ ," she explains.

David nods. Henry gasps.

"Without me?"

"Yes," Emma says. Both _A Nightmare on Elm Street_ and _The Exorcist_ were on TV, and Emma needed a bribe to distract Ian from that fact. "We have the DVD. You guys can watch it again later."

"Yea, but I wanted to watch _Killian_ watch it."

"Watch him watch it later."

"But he's already seen it now; it's not the same!"

Killian, his face scrunched up in bewilderment, asks, "Why do you want to watch me watch a movie?"

"To see your reactions!" Henry replies.

"Do you always watch me when we watch movies together?"

Henry shrugs. "Yea, usually—I mean, not the whole time, just during the important parts. You never noticed?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, good. I guess."

Killian's eyes narrow and he stares at Henry contemplatively for a long moment before turning away and going to the sink to pour himself a glass of water.

Emma finishes setting up the table for pumpkin carving, watching Killian out of the corner of her eye; the whole time he was upstairs Emma was imagining him in the shower, touching himself to relieve the pressure they built together. She's hoping they might get an hour to themselves sometime before the bar opens at 7 to finish what they started that morning.

Currently, the main obstacle to that happening is the pumpkins patch in her goddamn kitchen.

"Why are there so many?" Killian asks.

Emma snorts. She asked the same question after Henry and David finally finished unloading David's pickup truck. If they had intended to answer her they never got a chance, because as soon as the words were out of Emma's mouth Ian was touching the pumpkins one by one and telling her their names.

Yes, the pumpkins all have names.

"Some are for the bar, some are for here," David says, not to Killian but to Ian's pumpkin, which he's cutting the top off of—a little _too_ viciously.

Apparently he's still a little upset about what he witnessed earlier.

Emma gets it, and she knows he has a key and all but maybe next time he should knock or call ahead, for his own sake if not also for hers and Killian's.

"The bar?" Killian takes the chair next to Ian—the chair Ian saved specifically for him and pushed Henry out of when Henry tried to sit in it.

"Yea, you know," David replies, still speaking to the pumpkin. "I thought they would be a nice seasonal decoration. You can put them inside or outside-"

"Or both," Henry adds.

"Right, or both."

Killian glances at Emma but she shakes her head; this was all her dad's idea.

David pops the lid off of Ian's pumpkin and Ian thrusts his hand inside; David offers him the plastic scooper but Ian gleefully pulls out a soggy handful of pumpkin guts and grins.

"In the bowl, kid," Emma says. Ian plops the orange goo into the ceramic bowl waiting at his elbow, then shoves his hand back into his pumpkin.

Killian looks faintly disgusted. He also hasn't responded to David yet, so, taking his hesitation as disinterest, David says, "If you don't want the pumpkins in the bar we can just put them in the station instead."

"No," Killian says quickly. "I like them."

He stands then and takes up a knife to help David carve lids for all the pumpkins and then clean out the insides, and as they work side by side the ice between them gradually melts.

When 11 of the pumpkins are ready to go (the remaining 4 are brought to the front porch, to be carved at a later date) they each select one and start carving.

Henry and David use stencils from the book they purchased at the drug store; Henry carves a mummy and David does Dracula. Emma and Ian just make faces—Emma goes for the classic Jack-o-Lantern face with triangle eyes and nose and a grinning mouth with three square teeth; Ian tries to make his scary, and through pure lack of skill creates the most terrifying pumpkin Emma's ever seen.

"I think that one should go right by the tip jar," Emma says, "so no one steals it."

"And who, pray tell, do you believe is bold enough to steal from me?" Killian asks silkily, smirking.

"I would say Will Scarlet, only Will's working for you," Emma says.

Once the initial clamor to find Will Scarlet a job died down, Killian stepped in and quietly offered him a position working at the bar. He ran his idea by Emma first, and she agreed instantly—they owe Will a great deal, possibly both of the boys' lives.

"Will wouldn't steal from dad," Ian splutters. "Will's a good guy." He's gripping the sides of his pumpkin as if he's prepared to lob it at the head of anyone who disagrees.

"You're right," Emma assures him. "I was just joking." She's about to add that she only meant that Will was the only one in town both brave enough and dumb enough to try and steal from Killian, but she's pretty sure that would end with Ian telling Will that his mom called him dumb.

"You guys also don't actually have a tip jar," Henry says.

"You're right too."

Ruby, determined to continue working the stripper angle, suggested they have Will wander the bar naked save for a tip jar strapped to his junk, to which Killian heatedly replied that his bar wasn't The Rabbit Hole—Emma had finally taken him there to help him understand what he was competing against, and she was not disappointed by his reaction.

_"Is this a brothel? Why did you bring me to a brothel, Swan?"_

"Alright." Killian, who's been bent studiously over his pumpkin for over an hour, miniature saw in hand and his tongue between his teeth, turns the pumpkin to face Emma. "What do you think, love?"

It's a swan, the carved-out parts defining its delicate silhouette so that when the pumpkin is lit the swan's feathers will glow.

Emma scowls, not at his choice of subject, but at the skill with which he carved it.

"I didn't know you could do that," she says.

Killian smiles sheepishly. "I learned carpentry as a lad on Silver's ship. I can't draw very well, but I can carve."

"You can carve," Emma repeats, more to wrap her mind around the concept than to ask for confirmation.

"Aye. I used to whittle as well, but the hook made it difficult, so...I stopped." He utters the last bit apologetically, and Emma's scowl softens. So much of what she learns about his past is heartbreaking. She doesn't want his life to be a tragedy anymore. She wants his life to be full of the same love and joy that she's been lucky enough to experience these past 7 years.

"It's really nice, Killian," she says. "Show Ian."

"Huh?" Ian's head jerks up at the sound of his name.

He was busy adding more gruesome details to his Jack-o'-lantern (carefully shaving the dark orange rind off of the teeth to reveal the paler, peach colored flesh beneath), but when he sees Killian's pumpkin his eyes pop.

"Cooooooooooool!" he gushes.

He hops off his chair for a closer look, tucking himself into the circle of Killian's arm. Automatically, Killian pulls Ian a little closer and places a kiss on his forehead.

One of Ian's hands is resting on Killian's wrist, his fingers twiddling absently with the button on Killian's cuff, and with his other hand he lightly traces the swan's outline, then says, "It goes with your keychain."

Emma rolls her eyes and turns her face away, but only to hide her warm cheeks and her smile. Though she makes a show of disapproving, she actually thinks the keychain—and Killian's general insistence on finding a swan motif for every occasion—is precious.

They exchange their finished pumpkins for fresh ones, and just as they're beginning the second round of carving Ava arrives.

She's barely through the door when Ian bulldozes her. "Did you bring me ice cream?"

"Ian," Killian says sharply. "Let her come in and sit down."

Ian slinks back to his seat. He manages to wait until Ava's sitting in the chair across from him and Henry's put the 11th pumpkin in front of her before asking, " _Did_ you?"

"Be still, lad," Killian murmurs. Ian slumps in his chair with a pitiful frown, but remains silent.

Ava has too sweet of a soul to disappoint him, however, so she asks, "What should I make, Ian?"

Ian, predictably, demands that Ava carve an ice cream cone, but Henry says, "You should write 'The Crow's Nest'."

 _The Crow's Nest_.

The name Killian had chosen for his bar. Somehow, when she was proposing names, Snow had managed to list every single part of a ship except for the crow's nest. Henry was the one who eventually thought of it and texted it to Killian with what was essentially an essay explaining why 'The Crow's Nest' was perfect.

There are nods and murmurs of approval all around the table at Henry's suggestion; Killian grins, but Ian sticks his tongue out.

"Mom," Henry says calmly, contemplating Ian's tongue, "could you curb your child, please?"

"I'm not a child, you're a child!" Ian snarls.

"That's something only a child would say."

Ian sticks his tongue out further, and fast as lightning Henry scoops a glob of pumpkin guts off of the table and deposits it onto Ian's outstretched tongue. Ian gags and spits, then with a growl like a literal animal he gathers his feet beneath him and leaps over the corner of the table into Henry.

It's like watching one of those nature documentaries about Africa where a leopard jumps out of a tree directly onto an antelope, only in this case the antelope is expecting the leopard and turns his shoulder so that the leopard collides with him and gets stuck, feet dangling off the floor, both arms clinging to the antelope's neck for support.

After a second of flailing, Ian manages to get his feet up and planted on the seat of his empty chair. He uses the new leverage to push forward; Killian reaches out and steadies the chair as it scrapes towards him so Ian doesn't fall.

" _Mom!_ " Henry says.

"Take that downstairs or stop," Emma answers.

She expects them both to stop, but instead Henry picks Ian up in a fireman's carry and whisks him out of the kitchen and towards the basement stairs.

"C'mon," he says, "time to get destroyed."

Emma lets them go. It's some primal boy thing she doesn't really understand but accepts anyway. If her two sons need to go be cavemen for a while that's fine, so long as no one gets hurt—which neither of them ever have. Henry just enjoys teasing Ian and Ian enjoys an excuse to test his strength against his big brother's, and some miracle of the gap in their ages keeps it from being an actual rivalry.

Plus, the basement is carpeted and there are a set of cheap but cushy couches down there that Ian disassembles and uses as an American Gladiators obstacle course, so Emma knows that, worst case scenario, Ian's about to get some rug-burn and maybe a bruise or two.

She looks at Ava. "You can go with them if you want. You don't have to stay up here with us."

"Uh..." Ava says, as a chorus of grunts, giggles, and thumps drift up from the basement.

Killian chuckles. "Best to stay up here, with us civilized folk," he says, even though Emma has for sure seen him wrestle with Ian with just as much glee as Ian's now wrestling with Henry—not to mention all the times she's seen him sparring with David, the two of them grinning like idiots even while they try to land actual blows.

"The wooden swords aren't in the basement, are they?" Emma asks. Sometimes, if the weather's bad, Killian and Ian spar downstairs.

"No, love; they're outside."

"Okay, good."

Ten minutes later Emma hears the clack of the practice swords anyway—from outside. The boys must have gone out the basement door that leads from the laundry room into a concrete stairwell and then up into the backyard.

Emma sighs for what feels like the thousandth time that afternoon.

\---

After the pumpkins are finished, they load them back into David's pickup truck and go to the bar.

Will and Smee are standing in the back parking lot when they arrive, waiting for Killian to unlock the door. Killian hasn't had keys made for either of them yet, so he pulls out his own set—his golden swan and silver ship key chains glinting in the last rays of the setting sun—and lets them in.

Inside, Emma, Henry, Ian, David, and Ava debate the best placement for each of the 11 pumpkins for two hours while Killian, Will, and Smee prep the bar.

Ian wanders away every now and then to jump up onto one of the stools and peer over the counter at something Killian or Will is doing. Emma watches too, impressed by Killian's efficiency and also extremely turned on by how intense he is when he's concentrating, blue eyes bright beneath a furrowed brow.

They had a soft opening at The Crow's Nest the weekend before—and by "soft opening" Emma means that she, her parents, Ruby, Belle, Robin, the Merry Men, and the dwarves got rip-roaring drunk so that Killian, Will, and Smee could practice their bartending on live customers.

Her hangover the next day was brutal, but worth it.

Killian was good, as if he'd been a bartender his whole life. His only hang-up was his slowness with the bottle opener, so Emma went out and found wall-mounted ones that are shaped like skulls.

They're really the only pirate-y decoration Killian has, which was a major source of disappointment for both Ian and Henry.

The rest of the bar is nautical without being tacky, sparingly decorated with framed sea charts, a scientific illustration of a giant squid in black ink on faded yellow paper, an anatomical drawing of a Spanish galleon, and, the crown jewel, an actual ship's wheel mounted on the wall, polished and gleaming.

Hidden around were a few other gems, namely a Northeastern pennant and some drawings from Ian that Killian framed. Emma's contribution was a print of the monogram page from the Book of Kells that she couldn't resist buying when she stumbled across it in the same antique shop Killian bought the ship's wheel from—she has no idea if there's an Enchanted Forest equivalent of Ireland, but Killian's mother's family sounds pretty Gaelic, so Emma went with it.

All of those things—the pennant, the drawings, and the monogram page—are hung where Killian can see them easily from behind the bar.

He told her they comfort him when he grows anxious, when he's not distracted and has a moment to worry how things will go when the bar opens, if he'll have customers or not, if he'll succeed or fail completely or just scrape by.

Emma tries to tell him everything will be fine, but she knows the only thing that will truly comfort him is to see for himself what happens, and that's why at 7 o'clock on the dot she's the one opening the front doors and letting the first customers in, all the while grinning at Killian, who's standing behind the bar, gripping the counter with white knuckles but wearing his best welcoming smile.

\---

"That was exhausting," Killian grumbles.

"No, that was fucking amazing," Emma corrects. It's 2am and they're sitting on the porch swing, enjoying the mild mid-October night.

" _Language_ ," Henry chides, stifling a yawn.

He's on one end of the swing, his head laid upon on the backrest, his eyes closed. Killian's in an identical position, only in the opposite corner.

Ian's sleeping, his body laid out across all of theirs. He was annoyed that he was sent home with Belle as his babysitter, so he stayed awake until Emma and Killian came home, then fell asleep as soon as they sat down on the porch. He's bundled in a thick fleece blanket like a burrito, his Pikachu-socked feet sticking out of the far end of the bundle and resting in Henry's lap, and his hooded head tucked against Killian's chest.

The evening passed in a blur, Emma's memory crowded with the sound of clinking glasses and laughing voices. She closes her eyes and tries to recall the details.

Her parents were there of course, acting so much like a newlywed couple that it was physically difficult to look at them for too long. She might of thought it was revenge for what her dad walked in on this morning, if she believed her dad was actually capable of that sort of thing; she thinks it's more likely date nights were just hard to come by in the Enchanted Forest and they were taking full advantage of a rare opportunity.

Sarah Fisher and the Apprentice sat together at the bar until closing. There was whispering and giggling and at least one kiss. Regina came with Robin and nursed a glass of wine. Emma joined them for a while and tried to be friendly, aware that Henry was watching the entire time.

Nemo showed up and Emma watched _him_ the entire time, watched how stiffly Killian spoke to him, fearing that Nemo was there to tell Killian his brother had finally arrived in Storybrooke—Emma's dreading that day just as much as Killian is, because she might have to murder a dude—but Nemo left after one glass of whiskey.

There were several dozen women trying to flirt with either Will or Killian while they ordered their drinks. Killian was amazingly adept at remaining courteous and charming while deflecting their attention, but Will was in his element and Emma's pretty sure he went home with a pocket full of phone numbers scrawled on cocktail napkins.

Henry and Ava stayed until closing as well, enjoying endless rounds of free kiddie cocktails and cokes.

Emma gave those two some space and hung out with Ruby at the bar, chatting about everything from Ian and Rowan to baby Gideon's imminent homecoming to how Ruby's managerial takeover of the animal shelter was going.

When Killian had a free moment he'd appear in front of her to refresh her drink or slide his fingers into hers and lift her hand to his lips for a kiss. She felt his eyes on her often, and would find herself glancing away from Ruby and catching Killian watching her while he prepared a drink.

He'd wink at her, which usually pissed off the female fan he was pulling a beer or mixing a cocktail for.

It was fine. Killian was sexy as all fuck, so she couldn't really blame a girl for wanting a piece of him. It _was_ sort of annoying to see ladies oogling him so openly, but Emma knows the ass inside those waxed black jeans belongs to her, the chest hair beneath his paisley patterned shirt is hers to scratch her fingernails through, and that it's _her_ body he worships with his lips every night, _her_ pleasured cries that mingle with his as they shatter around each other in the bed they share.

So, they can oogle all they want.

Ian stretches inside his burrito and makes a soft, pained sound. His eyes crack open, and he peers blurrily up at Killian with a small frown.

Killian's fingers are on his brow instantly, smoothing the crease there. "How about I take you up to bed, lad?" he asks quietly.

Ian nods and closes his eyes again. Emma helps Killian heft Ian off of their laps and into his arms, and then Killian carries Ian inside.

When the screen door closes, Emma hears Ian ask, "Is Henry gonna be here tomorrow."

"Aye. He'll be here until Monday night."

"Is tomorrow Monday?"

"No, lad. Tomorrow's Sunday, so you have two more days to spend with your brother."

"Are we gonna carve the other pumpkins?"

"Aye. Tomorrow."

"Is Henry gonna carve one?"

"Of course he is."

And then they're too far away for Emma to hear anymore, so she looks over at Henry.

"He misses you," she says.

"I know. I actually miss him too."

Henry and Ian Skype or talk on the phone nearly every day, usually for a full hour.

Emma scoots closer to Henry, cold without Ian on top of her and Killian next to her. She tries sending Killian a telepathic message to make some hot chocolate, just in case that's how the True Love thing works—it hasn't seemed to work that way so far, but Emma hasn't given up hope yet.

"Are you happy to be home?" she asks.

Henry doesn't answer right away. Emma blinks in surprise.

"Henry?"

"I don't know," he admits. His face is turned away, so she can't see his full expression.

"Henry, what's wrong?"

"It just...it just feels weird."

"Is it because-"

"It's _not_ because of you and Killian," Henry says, meeting her eyes. "And please don't mention what happened this morning ever again for the rest of my life, okay?"

"Okay," Emma agrees quickly. "Now, tell me what's going on."

Henry lets out a deep breath, visibly relaxing. It feels like back in high school, when he told her about how Avery and Violet had been dating behind his back for weeks.

"I just feel like I don't really know who I am anymore—or where I belong."

"You belong here," she says. "With me and Ian."

"I mean—know _that_ , I'm just trying to say that..." He huffs, suddenly frustrated, mouth twisting. "Okay, first I was Henry Mills, the mayor's son. Then I found out my whole life was a lie and I was really the son of Emma Swan, who was the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. And _then_ I was Henry Swan and I lived with my mom and my little brother in Boston. And when I got all my old memories back in May, I became...not Henry Mills again, but, like...a combination of Henry Mills and Henry Swan." He looks over at her again, brow furrowed. "Does that make sense?"

"Yea."

He lays his head on the back rest once more and stares up at the ceiling. "5 months ago I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted to do with my life. And now I feel like I don't know anything."

Emma's stomach clenches, anxiously. "Are you about to tell me you're dropping out of school?"

"No," Henry says, with an incredulous laugh. "I honestly don't know if college is what I want anymore, but I'm not going to just drop out."

 _He's leaving_.

It whispers through her and Emma knows immediately that it's true. She doesn't know when he'll leave or where he'll leave to, but the certainty remains nonetheless.

"Henry, can I tell you something?"

"Hm?" He turns his head along the backrest so he can see her.

"You'll always have a home here, with me and Ian and Killian. No matter what happens—no matter what you do or where you go, we'll be here."

Henry swallows hard and nods. Emma reaches up and brushes a lock of brown hair off of his forehead.

"I love you, kid. Don't ever forget it," she says, and smiles.

He smiles back, just as Killian returns to the porch with three steaming mugs of hot chocolate and eases himself carefully back onto the porch swing. He passes one to Henry and one to Emma, and keeps the one piled with mini marshmallows to himself.

"Do you mind if I take mine upstairs?" Henry asks.

"Sure."

"Alright, see you guys in the morning."

"Goodnight, Henry."

"Goodnight, lad."

Killian watches Henry go into the house, then says, "Is Henry okay?"

Emma wraps her hands around her mug, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. "Sort of. He feels a bit lost."

"A lot's happened," Killian says.

"Yea."

"Do you want me to talk to him?"

"No, I...I think he'll be okay. I think he just needed to hear that we're gonna be here for him, no matter what."

Killian lifts his arm and Emma ducks under it, snuggling against his chest and drawing her knees up onto the swing. Killian also brought a blanket out, draped over his arm, and now he uses his hook to help settle it over her lap.

"Warm?" he asks.

"Mmhm. Thank you."

They sit in silence for a while, sipping their hot chocolates. Emma's thoughts drift back to the evening at the bar, all her memories tinged with a happy golden glow. It was a good night's worth of business, and Killian was smiling contentedly by the end of it, when they turned off the lights and locked up and left.

She looks up at him now, wondering if he's thinking the same thing. He's staring past the porch, out into the night.

He sees her watching him, sees the question in her eyes, and says, "Henry."

"Oh?"

"Aye. He's grown into a fine young lad, and he's lucky to have a mother like you."

"Killian-"

"I'm being serious, Swan."

He leans down and kisses her. It was probably meant to be chaste, but the moment his lips touch hers the lust that's been simmering at her center all day roars to life and she deepens their kiss, opening her mouth to him and skimming her tongue along his. Her teeth follow, playfully grazing his lower lip.

She knows he feels the heat rising up inside of her, because she hears his mug hit the porch with a clink and then his fingers are gripping her hip, somehow already beneath both the blanket and her sweater.

"Killian-" she tries to say again, even as her hips jump, rolling into Killian's hand, encouraging his fingers past the waistband of her jeans and into her underwear.

"I can't wait, love," he breaths, his palm flat on her belly, his fingertips skimming the hair between her legs.

"Killian, we're outside."

"You've never objected to making love outdoors before, Swan."

"Yea but we're on the _porch_! Someone could see us."

Someone being one of the boys; either of them could walk out at any moment.

"I didn't say it had to be the porch..."

His lips and teeth and tongue trace her jaw line while his hand slides slowly lower until it finds her core. She's already soaking wet and aching for him, and his touch sends a deep thrum through her entire body.

" _Bloody hell_ ," he purrs, over the moan that escapes her lips.

Rationality flees her brain in a rush, leaving only feral desire in its place.

"I have an idea," she says.

She stands abruptly, nearly dumping them both onto the floor, but they steady themselves and Emma leads him off of the porch and around the corner of the house.

Holding to her hand, Killian follows her through the dark yard all the way to the shed in the back, where there's a strip of open grass in between the shed and the bushes that line the fence. There, they're completely hidden.

Killian doesn't wait for her to explain, he uses his grip on her hand to spin her into his arms, then he walks her backwards until her shoulders hit the shed.

He tucks his face against her neck, lips brushing her skin, and whispers. "Do you remember our first time, love?"

"Yes."

How could she forget?

He lifts her up and she straddles his hips and he takes her against the wall of the shed as he once took her against a wooden beam aboard the Jolly Roger. She clings to him, her hands fisted in his jacket—but far too soon he stops.

His forehead falls to her shoulder, and he chuckles. "It seems I misjudged my stamina, love. I'm far too tired for this."

His legs are shaking, she realizes. He starts to step back and lower her back to the ground, but she wraps her legs tighter around his waist and holds him still.

"Wait," she murmurs.

"Emma-"

In her mind she pictures the master bedroom and the bed.

 _Our bedroom_ , she thinks. _Our bed_.

With a deep breath she reaches for her magic. It leaps into her hands easily, and she draws it out in a giant wave, then she twists it and wraps it around both her and Killian, the way you would throw a cloak over your shoulder. Whether he's aware of the cause or not, Killian shivers when her magic touches him and he presses closer.

In a heartbeat the yard vanishes and they're in their bedroom, lying in a tangled heap on the bed, Emma on top, half crushing him.

Killian's laughs, a deep sound that vibrates through his chest and into Emma.

"That was marvelous, Swan," he says, his grin flashing white in the dim room. "I don't suppose you can use your magic to make our clothes disappear as well, could you?"

"I thought you said you were too tired."

"To hold you up, aye. But now that I've got you lying down..." He trails off, then quirks an eyebrow. "Our clothes?"

"I think you're on your own with that one, sorry Captain."

" _Very well_."

And with a growl he flips her over and reapplies himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, this is the beginning of the sex marathon that ends with Emma getting pregnant...more about that in the next two chapters ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! There won't be an update next weekend because I'll be out of town, but I'm gonna try and finish it the weekend after!

It's the night before Emma's birthday, and there are a series of things Killian would like to be doing to her body right now—only their bed has an extra occupant.

"Is Dracula real?" Ian asks, quietly but with an urgency in his voice that tells Killian the lad's nowhere near falling asleep again.

"No," Emma murmurs drowsily, her face half-buried in her pillow, her pile of blankets pulled up around her ears. Ian's huddled against Killian, facing Emma with both his hands folded beneath his cheek.

"Are werewolves real?"

"No."

"But Ruby's a werewolf."

"Ruby can turn into a wolf, but she's not a _were_ wolf."

"Oh."

The approach of Halloween has altered the landscape of Storybrooke—themed treats at Ava's, a spooky book section in the library, and decorations on buildings both public and private, ranging from some cobwebs and fake spiders to hellishly dressed dummies propped on lawns in macabre dioramas.

It's disturbing, this cheerful emphasis on the ghoulish and gruesome, but perhaps the most troublesome aspect is the horror movies playing nonstop on television.

Every night Ian begs them to watch whichever film is scheduled to play that evening, and—since neither Emma nor Killian have any intention of obliging him in that regard—Emma's solution was to rent what she called "old-fashioned monster movies" that are supposedly "not actually scary".

Killian agrees that the black and white movies aren't truly frightening, but they triggered the boy's imagination regardless.

"Is the mummy real?"

"Mummies are real," Emma mumbles, "but they're not cursed. They don't come alive and kill people. Mummies are just what the ancient Egyptians did to dead bodies."

"Is Frankenstein real?"

"Frankenstein's the doctor. But no."

"Whattabout Jason?"

"Who's Jason?"

"The hockey mask guy."

Emma's eye opens, the one not covered by her pillow. "When did you watch Jason?"

"I didn't. He's on the commercials."

Emma stares at him in silence for a moment, then says, "Jason's not real either—none of those guys are. They're not from the Enchanted Forest like your dad and grandma and grandpa and Belle and Robin; they're just characters somebody made up. Ok?"

"Ok."

Beneath the arm Killian has around Ian, he feels the tension leave the lad's thin frame, and he snuggles further into both Killian and the blanket they're lying under. Killian waits for him to settle, to get his back wedged firmly against Killian's chest and his bare feet tucked against Killian's shins, then, resigned to sleeping as a trio for the night, Killian retightens his arm and presses his face to the back of Ian's neck.

All the windows in their bedroom are open precisely an inch, allowing in a faint but cool breeze. Though he teases Emma for it, Killian rather enjoys the crisp air in his lungs and the refreshing caress against his skin, a contrast to the warmth and comfortable closeness of the bed.

He's more accustomed to sleeping at the house now than he is aboard the Jolly Roger, and the rare occasions he sleeps on his ship (only twice so far this month), Killian feels more intensely lonely than he ever did before, the pain of it lodged beneath his breastbone and sitting heavily at the base of his throat. He doesn't sleep well there anymore, distracted by all the differences between his cabin and the bedroom at the house, things he either never noticed or never minded before: the narrowness of his bunk, the proximity of the walls, the quiet.

His quarters no longer feel safe and peaceful, they feel _empty_.

The sound of the wind through the trees will never soothe Killian the way the waves do, but even the song of the sea is nothing compared to the feel of Emma in his arms, her hair tickling his nose, her whispering breaths filling his ears. His home is with her now—her and Ian.

"Mom?"

"Hmmmm?"

"The black feather lady's real though, right?"

Killian opens his eyes and meets Emma's over Ian's head. A chill passes through him, raising goose pimples along his arms despite the heat he's currently wrapped in.

"Did you dream about her, too?" Killian asks. The Black Fairy hasn't appeared in Ian's nightmares since she escaped to the Dark Realm, but the Apprentice told them to be vigilant, that her reappearance might be an omen of her return, something to do with Ian possibly having the power of foresight.

"No," Ian says. "Just about Jason and Dracula."

One of Emma's hands appears and touches Ian's cheek. "The black feather lady's real—but she's gone now, remember?"

"What if she comes back?"

"Then I'm just gonna have to beat her up again."

That's the comforting tale they told Ian, that Emma was able to drive the Black Fairy off with her magic. It's partially true: the Black Fairy did flee, but Ian doesn't need to know that it wasn't because they defeated her.

"Mom?"

"Yea, kid?" Emma's voice is wary now. Killian holds his breath in anticipation.

"Can you get Mr. Jim and Roger?"

Killian's shoulder sag with the relieved sigh he releases. "I'll get them," he says. "Where are they?"

"In my room."

"Alright. I'll be right back."

Killian goes downstairs first, to reassure himself that the house is secure; he knows Emma wards it with magic every night, but he likes knowing that the doors are locked and that the pistols and knives he's hidden out of Ian's sight and reach are still in place.

He doesn't know what use a bullet would be against the Black Fairy, but he's determined to find out.

Satisfied that there's a weapon conveniently available to him in every room, Killian pours himself a glass of water from the sink, guzzles it down, eats a handful of Sour Patch Kids from the stash Emma secreted away just for him, then climbs back up to the second floor to fetch Ian's stuffed animals.

Roger is on the carpet in the center of the room, as if he tried to follow Ian when the nightmares drove Ian out of his bed and into Emma and Killian's. Killian scoops up the plush orange crab and then locates One-Eyed Jim, still tangled in Ian's comforter.

Emma's already asleep again when Killian returns to their room. She and Ian are nestled together like two peas in a pod. Killian smiles to himself as he adds his dark head to the pillow alongside their blonde ones. Ian mutters something and reaches out; Killian slides Roger and Mr. Jim into his grasp and then arranges himself comfortably around them, letting his arm drape across Ian and resting his hand on Emma's hip. He kisses Ian's hair, and closes his eyes.

\---

The next morning Killian wakes up before Emma does, and as he slips out of bed he drags Ian with him. Ian startles awake but Killian catches the flailing arms and presses a finger to his lips in response to Ian's bewildered stare. Ian glances at Emma, but Killian jerks his head towards the bedroom door and the two of them tiptoe into the hallway.

Killian eases the door closed, then turns to Ian. "It's your mother's birthday."

"I know," Ian says, his eyelids puffy from sleep, a pink crease in one of his cheeks from the pillow.

"Go get ready for school and then meet me in the kitchen."

Ian nods and trots to his room, and Killian goes downstairs to get breakfast started.

Early in October, he received a text from Henry that wasn't his then-customary daily list of possible names for the bar.

_You know mom's birthday is coming up, right?_

Killian had been tracking its approach since August. 

_Aye, Henry, I know._

_What do you have planned for it_?

_Nothing, currently._

_You have to do something for her birthday. Like something seriously romantic. Don't be lame._

Henry was a bit more bold over text than he was in reality, and though his accusation was irksome, Killian appreciated that Henry was looking out for his mother.

_What do you and Ian usually do for her?_

_Make her a cake and a card and get her a gift. You are an adult with actual money though so you should buy her something really nice and then take her out to dinner._

Killian had to put his phone down and ball his hand into a fist to keep from replying: _I'm not an idiot_. He wanted Emma to have a memorable birthday just as much as Henry did, a birthday during which she was showered with the same love she showered her sons with on _their_ birthdays.

So, Killian thought long and hard and came up with a plan, the first stage of which is breakfast.

By the time Emma arrives in the kitchen Killian's finished cooking.

"What's this?" she asks with a bemused smile, gaze roving over the table, set for three but with enough food to feed twice as many. 

"It's your birthday!" Ian announces, throwing his hands wide. "Dad made pancakes."

Emma arches an eyebrow. "Without me?"

Killian grins. Pancakes have become a bit of an inside joke for them, a code word for _sex_ that they throw coyly at each other when Ian's around.

"Well, I didn't want to wake you," he says.

"You should have."

Perhaps if Ian had slept in his own bed, Killian _would_ have surprised Emma with an entirely different sort of breakfast that morning, but he can only play the hand dealt to him, and Ian's been a bit of a wild card lately when it comes to sleep.

After they eat, Killian clears the plates and Ian shoves a brightly-wrapped box into Emma's hands.

"Open it!"

Emma does, peeling the wrapping paper away with infinite care to reveal a plain box. Inside the box is a coffee mug, and drawn on the coffee mug—in Ian's bold hand—is a picture.

She squints. "Is that-?"

"It's us!" Ian says, and with one syrup-sticky finger points to each of the six figures drawn on the mug in turn. "That's you, that's Henry, that's me, that's dad, and that's grandma and grandpa."

The picture just barely fit on the mug, wrapped around its surface from one side of the handle to the other. Each person is recognizable by their key features: Killian is in all black, for instance, and even has a red dot in one ear to indicate the ruby stud he wears in real life, and Emma's blonde hair falls to her knees.

"Ian, did you draw this?" she says, rotating the mug slowly, eyes wide as she takes it in.

"Yea! Dad got me special markers."

The markers in question were called paint pens, and they were confiscated shortly after Ian used them on the mug because he then decided to try and decorate his bedroom furniture with them.

"Wow, you drew my hair really long," Emma comments.

"Uh-huh. 'Cause it's magic."

"You think my hair is magic?"

Ian nods vigorously. "Dad does too."

Killian feels his face flush as Emma smirks catlike at him and asks, "You do?"

"I, erm..." He tugs helplessly on his ear. 

"Yea, whenever we're sad we just put our faces in your hair and then we feel all better." Luckily, Ian's already moved on and doesn't allow Emma to dwell on the information he just revealed—though Killian can tell by her expression that she's already filed it away under 'T' for 'Things to tease Killian about'. "Dad, are you gonna give her your present?"

"Later," Killian says quickly. "It's for later."

Emma's smirk evaporates and instead her lips part in surprise, as if the thought of Killian giving her a birthday gift had never occurred to her. _She_ blushes this time, and Killian files _that_ away alongside all the other expressions she wears when he does something she doesn't expect, something simple and obvious but which she's never experienced before.

"Thank you," she says later, after they've dropped Ian off at school and he's walking her and her new coffee mug to the front doors of the station. He drove that morning, so that he can pick her up after her shift for dinner.

"Thank you for what?" he questions.

"For this morning. For the breakfast."

"No need to thank me, love. It's your birthday. I told you I wanted to celebrate it, and this is me celebrating it."

Her blush returns, and her gaze drops away from his. "Do I—should I bring an extra change of clothes? For dinner? Do you want me to wear something special?"

 _Yes_ , a little voice inside of him purrs, imagining Emma in a dress, something tight and revealing, but then he thinks of what's planned for after dinner, the thing Emma might hate but hopefully won't blame Killian for because Killian had nothing to do with it, and says, "No. You can wear whatever you'd like, love."

She smiles, and Killian thinks that somehow that was the correct answer. Then, he quirks an eyebrow. "Is there something you'd like _me_ to wear?" he asks.

\---

Killian spends the afternoon prepping the bar for Will and Smee, who will be on their own that evening for the first time since the bar opened. Killian trusts them to run the place, but it feels irresponsible to abandon them entirely, so he stocks the shelves, the fridge, and the napkins, checks the kegs and pulls up an extra drum of Blue Moon just in case it kicks during the night, then he cleans out the ice bin in preparation for fresh ice, and cuts orange, lemon, and lime slices for garnishes.

He picks Ian up from school at 2:30 and takes the boy home to eat and do his homework. At 4:45 he drops Ian off with Snow at the loft, and at 5 he pulls up in front of the station to find Emma waiting for him in black heels and a dress that's black and sleeveless on top and gold and flaring on the bottom.

Killian stares as she slides gracefully into the passenger side of the car. "Swan, when did you have time..."

Words fail him at that point, because she's gorgeous and even though she's gorgeous in her jeans and sweater or her leggings or the baggy t-shirt she wears to bed she's an entirely different kind of gorgeous in a dress—especially a dress with a glowing gold skirt that brings out the golden highlights in her hair.

Emma makes a face at him."Close your mouth, Killian, before something flies in there."

He'd very much like her _tongue_ to fly in there, her tongue attached to her mouth attached to her lips attached to that body and that dress. He wants her both in that dress and out of it in the same time—is that possible?

"You look like you've never seen a girl in a dress before," she says dryly, continuing to make a face at him.

"Just the one time, love," he says, meaning _her_ , the one time he saw _her_ in a dress.

"Oh, well...I _do_ wear them."

"Aye," he agrees. He swallows hard and shifts in his seat, trying to make extra room in his jeans—the waxed black ones he knows Emma likes—for what's burgeoning in his loins.

Emma sees, and places her hand on his knee, moving it slowly up his thigh until her touch elicits a hissing gasp through Killian's clenched teeth.

"I believe you said something about dinner?" she says.

\---

They're late for their dinner reservation, but after Killian apologizes—hoping neither he nor Emma look too mussed or too breathless—the host seats them with only mild grumbling.

It's the same restaurant Killian took Emma to on their first "date", and by some stroke of divine coincidence they end up at the same table as well.

"Is Robin here too?" Emma asks, looking around as Killian pushes her chair in for her.

"No, no chaperone tonight," Killian chuckles, taking his own seat. Without planning it, their hands meet atop the table and their fingers entwine.

Emma smiles at him. "This is really nice," she says, but she says it as if she's really trying to say _thank you_ again.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it." He squeezes her fingers, his thumb stroking her skin. "Shall we order?"

They haven't dined alone in ages, and although Killian greatly enjoys their evening meals with Ian—enjoys the responsibility of being a parent, of proving a stable environment for his son—he also enjoys having Emma completely to himself, having her full attention, her emerald eyes fixed solely on him, her legs tangled with his beneath the table, their hands occasionally joining beside their wine glasses.

"We should do this more often," he says.

"Yea, like a date night," Emma agrees. "I'm kind of annoyed at myself for not thinking of it sooner."

"Don't be, love. These past two months have been busy."

The only time they've had to themselves lately is after Ian's gone to bed, and his hours at the bar have shortened that window considerably.

"Do you think your parents would agree to babysitting the lad once a week?"

"Definitely," Emma says. "I think now that we're out of the loft they really miss him. Are _you_ going to be able to do a date night?"

Killian shrugs. "Date night may have to be on Mondays, at least for the time being. Once things are more stable I might be able to take Fridays off."

"That's okay. I don't mind Mondays. You could pick me up from work."

"Will you wear that dress?"

She snorts. "Probably not."

But her cheeks are pink, and Killian doesn't think it's because of the wine.

"I have something for you," he says suddenly.

Emma blinks at him, eyes going wide and lips parting once more in that surprised expression she'd worn earlier.

From his jacket Killian pulls a long, thin, black velvet box and slides it across the white tablecloth towards her. "Happy birthday," he says softly, as she takes it and opens it to reveal a golden necklace comprised of two chains.

"Killian..." she breathes, her fingers lightly tracing what's upon those chains: two constellations picked out in diamonds and connected by more gold. The constellation Leo for Henry, and Cancer for Ian.

"I know you talked of having them as tattoos—and perhaps one day you will, but I thought for now, this might do."

"Where did you get it?"

"I had the jeweler make it. The diamonds and the gold are mine, but the work is his."

He watches her study the necklace.

"If you don't like them, there's—I could have the jeweler change the stones. Rubies for Cancer, and-"

She raises her green eyes to his, cutting his rambling short. "Can you help me put it on?"

"Aye, love. Of course."

He nearly knocks his chair over, so swiftly does he scramble out of it. He rounds the table to stand behind her, and she passes him one end of the necklace. With one of her hands she holds the other end, and with her free hand she moves her hair over her shoulder and out of the way.

Together they clasp the chains at the nape of her neck, and then Killian returns to his seat to get the full effect.

The chains, though connected at the clasp, are uneven lengths, meaning one constellation hangs a bit higher than the other. Leo rests just below the hollow of Emma's throat, and Cancer is suspended a half inch beneath it.

The gold and the diamonds, sparkling faintly in the low light from their tabletop lamp, suit Emma's complexion perfectly.

"Do you like it?" Killian asks, his heart shuddering nervously.

Emma touches the necklace delicately with her fingertips. "It's perfect," she whispers. "This is the best birthday I've ever had—and I'm 36 now, so I've had a few."

He grins, and offers her his hand, placing it palm up on the table and waiting for her to lace her fingers through his. Her other hand, he notices, remains at her throat, on the necklace.

"Are you implying that you're _old_ , Swan?" he teases.

"Well, I'm not _young_."

"Swan, I'm 191—don't talk to me about being old."

"How old are you, like, physically?" she asks, thoughtfully.

"Difficult to say exactly, but somewhere around the same age as you," he says. "Likely a tad older."

If his math is correct, he thinks he's 37, about to be 38.

"Do you know how old your parents are?"

Emma frowns. "I don't know. I know they're close to my age too, but...oh my God, what if they're _younger_ than me?"

"I believe I remember hearing something about a ball being thrown for your father's 40th birthday not too long ago, so I don't think you have to worry about that."

"What about my mom though? She might be younger."

"I think your mother's older actually."

"What? Really?"

"Aye—but listen, love, I only know what I've heard, and what I've heard may be incorrect."

Emma sits back and picks up her wine glass. "Damn, they both look good for being in their 40s."

"I hope you say the same thing about me when I'm 40."

"Killian, you're going to be sexy even when you're 80."

"Will you still want to make love to me when I'm gray and wrinkly and my balls are-"

Someone clears their throat from a table nearby. Emma laughs into her wine and Killian quickly lifts his own glass to his lips to hide his smirk.

"Speaking of, erm, your parents," he says, when they've recovered, "we have another stop to make after this."

"Oh?"

"Aye, and...Emma, I want you to remember that none of this was my idea."

\---

They walk from the restaurant to City Hall. Killian hates to do it, hates to drag her there knowing how she might react, knowing that it might ruin the otherwise wonderful evening they'd been having—but Killian hadn't known how to tell Emma's parents no.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see when we get there," Killian answers, hoping he doesn't sound too hesitant.

Emma tugs Killian's jacket tighter around her shoulders. "It's not like a massive surprise party or something, is it?"

"No, but do act surprised."

She eyes him sideways, but doesn't respond.

City Hall is lit up brightly against the night, yellow light spilling from its windows and the wide open front doors. Emma and Killian follow another couple up the stairs and into the main hallway. Directly to their left is the auditorium, its entrance draped with gauzy white curtains tied with yellow silk ribbons.

Emma halts immediately. Visible through the doorway is a crowd of people, all finely dressed, milling around small tables also draped with white and yellow.

"What the-"

"Emma!"

Snow materializes out of nowhere and bustles over to Emma.

"Mom, what is this?"

Snow stops just short of tackling her daughter, taking her instead by either hand and pulling her towards the auditorium. "It's a ballroom dancing class. We're all going to learn how to dance!"

Emma plants her feet. "It looks like a party," she says flatly.

"Well, it's not. It's a community-building event. We haven't had one since the mixer in June and I wanted something to bring this town together again after—well, after everything that happened over the summer." Snow stops trying to haul Emma into the auditorium and just smiles. "You look so beautiful. That dress is amazing, and that necklace-" She gasps. "Is that from Killian?"

"Mom," Emma says sharply.

"Emma?" Snow returns, innocently.

"Stop ignoring this angry look I know you see on my face and tell me what the hell is going on."

David steps in, ducking under the gauze curtains and crossing the hallway to to slip an arm around his wife's shoulders.

"Emma, I know what you're thinking," he says, glancing at Killian. "But it's not a birthday party. I promise."

He's telling the truth. It's _not_ a birthday party—not exactly, at least.

It's also _not_ a royal ball.

Only, it also sort of _is_ a royal ball.

It's the closest Snow could get, once both David and Killian talked her down from her original plan of throwing an entire town-wide day of celebration.

"We have to think about what Emma would want," David told her. "And a royal ball is _not_ something Emma would want."

"She'd also murder us if we did that," Killian reasoned—rather more logically, he thought.

Snow heeded their advice—to an extent. By the time David and Killian discovered her plan, it was already set in motion and too late to stop it.

David's smile is both warm and sad. "We've never been able to celebrate your birthday before," he says softly. "We just wanted to do something fun with you."

The ice melts from Emma's gaze. "You could have just taken me mini-golfing," she huffs.

"Next year, definitely."

With a sigh, Emma turns to Killian, slipping his jacket from her shoulders as she does. She lays it in his hand, presses a kiss to his cheek, and in his ear mutters, "If you leave me alone in there I will kill you."

"Understood," he murmurs.

"Also, first chance we get we're going to sneak upstairs and see if any rooms are unlocked."

Killian spies movement over her shoulder, a streak of gold and gray and blue bolting towards them. "That may not be as easily done as you think," he says.

"Why?"

"MOM!"

Emma whirls just in time to catch Ian. He grins up at her, dapper in a pale blue dress shirt, grey plaid waistcoat, and navy bowtie.

"Will you dance with me?" he gushes, and Killian sees that last of Emma's anger dissolve.

\---

Inside the auditorium they're grouped into pairs. Emma clings to Killian, and as the instructor shuffles everyone around to give each couple enough space, they find themselves in the very center, where it would be impossible to escape undetected.

Ian is somewhere on the periphery with Rowan. Roland is near them, standing beside a girl that's nearly as all as him and who Killian thinks is the daughter of one of the Merry Men.

There's a string quartet on the stage at the far end of the room, and after the instructor demonstrates the first dance—a waltz—she claps her hands and the musicians begin playing. As the first chords fill the hall, everyone begins moving, slowly at first, uncertainly, and then the couples with more experience—the couples that were likely nobility back in the Enchanted Forest—pick up their pace, dancing literal circles around the less capable individuals.

"I don't know how to do this," Emma whispers frantically, her fingers digging into Killian's shoulders. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Blend in," Killian says soothingly, pointedly loosening her grip on his shoulder.

"Wait, are you saying you know how to do whatever this is?"

"It's called a waltz, and there's only one rule." He takes her hand in his, and places his hook gently at the small of her back. "Pick a partner who knows what he's doing."

She follows his lead with grace, stiffly at first, but he feels the moment she lets go, and then they're flying.

He dances reflexively, letting his feet move through the familiar pattern on their own so he can focus on Emma. She's biting her lip but the corners are smiling and she's sparkling all over. He vaguely registers the couples around them, too absorbed by a pair of vivid green eyes and golden freckles on cream-colored skin.

"So, how do you know how to do this?" Emma asks. "I didn't think pirates danced."

"Before I was a _pirate_ , Swan, I was in the Royal Navy."

"They teach you to dance in the Navy?"

"Aye. It's a skill expected of a gentleman. Officers and decorated sailors were often invited to attend balls. It was a good way to make a match."

"Make a match as in marriage?"

"Aye."

"Hm. What else did they teach you in the Navy?"

Killian's about to tell her, but David swoops in and scoops Emma out of his arms with a wink.

"I'll bring her back," he apologizes.

"Do I just follow your lead too?" Killian hears Emma ask as she's twirled out of Killian's reach.

"I'm actually not very good at this," David replies, "So let's both just try not to fall over."

Indeed, David is not as gifted a dancer as he is a swordsman.

Killian watches for a moment, then turns on his heel, scanning the crowd for an avenue off of the dance floor. Without warning he finds himself in Belle's arms. He instinctively freezes but Belle tugs him into the dance.

"Relax," she says. "It's either me or Little John."

"Well, when you put it like that..."

Belle leads, and since she clearly knows what she's doing, following her is easy. To their right Ruby is dancing with Snow, and past them is Robin and Regina.

"Hey, have you seen Ian and Rowan?" Ruby calls.

"No," Killian says.

"Here." Belle spins them and through a gap between bodies Killian spots Ian and Rowan. The two are shuffling back and forth, bumping into each other at almost every step and giggling hysterically.

Killian laughs.

"I'm glad they're friends," Belle says.

Her words calm the nervous flutter in Killian's belly. Her comment is a lifeline, an offering, and Killian grabs hold.

"Me too," he agrees, and they share a smile. "How's Rowan, um, adjusting?"

"Rowan's doing great. She's very happy. She misses some of her friends from Misthaven House. She sees them at school but we've been trying our best to organize some play dates for them."

"And Gideon?"

"Hopefully he'll be home by Christmas."

"Is Rowan excited to be getting a little brother?"

"Yes. She can't wait. We've been getting Gideon's room ready for him."

Killian remembers how excited Ian was to decorate his new room, how stunned he was by the sheer size of it compared to his old bedroom in Boston.

"What about you and Emma?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean, do you two think you'll have any more kids? Besides Ian? You have the space for it now."

Fire heats Killian's cheeks and he trips over his own feet, knocking them into another couple. When he and Belle right themselves, Belle says hurriedly, "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry, Killian. I shouldn't have asked that."

"No, it's...it's okay," he says, and although he knows Belle was merely being friendly, after that words seem to stick in his throat, and he can't bring himself to speak until Belle returns to Ruby and Emma's back in his arms.

She's flushed and out of breath, but grinning radiantly. "So, you were telling me what else you learned in the Navy?"

Killian smiles, but Belle's question sits heavy as a boulder in his stomach.

\---

The dancing continues for hours. Emma is the most sought-after dance partner, and so Killian finds himself dancing with Snow, Ruby, Belle again, Sarah Fisher twice, Ian, and, for a heartbeat, Robin.

Throughout the evening he keeps an eye on Ian, but Ian's too occupied with his own dancing to be causing trouble. Killian sees him dancing with Emma several times, and once he rides on David's shoulders while David dances with Snow. After that Ian ends up in Killian's arms, and he, Killian, and Emma shuffle through a particularly fast waltz together.

When the dancing is finished a refreshment table is wheeled out, and the guests linger over drinks, finger foods, and giant yellow-frosted cupcakes that Killian would bet his remaining hand on were made by Ava.

A small group gathers around Emma, the circle of her and Killian's friends in Storybrooke. No one makes a scene about it, but each and every one of them finds a moment to tell her "Happy birthday".

\---

"Ok, that was nice, but please don't ever let my parents do something like that again," Emma says into her pillow. Ian's in bed and so are Emma and Killian. "Got it?"

"Aye, love, I've got it."

"I mean it. You have my permission to do everything in your power necessary to stop them. Okay?"

"Okay," he says with a chuckle, and kisses the back of her neck. "Did you enjoy it though?"

"The dancing part? Yes. The part where the whole town was there? No." She sighs and scoots backwards until her rear end is snuggled more firmly into Killian's hips. "I'm really happy that my parents were there and you were there...but that was a bit too much of a big deal for me."

He kisses her neck again. "Next year will be different. Perhaps your mother just needed to get it out of her system."

Emma nods. "I know. This is the first birthday I've really celebrated with them—with anyone besides Ian and Henry, really. Did I already tell you how much I love the necklace?"

"You did, but feel free to tell me again."

"Thank you, Killian." Her hand squeezes his and tugs it more firmly around her middle. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Happy birthday."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Killian lays there with Emma in his arms, listening to her breathing slow down and even out as she falls asleep, while inside his own skull his thoughts race, a discordant hum in his brain, Belle's question echoing through it all.

_"Do you two think you'll have any more kids?"_

_Of course_ Killian wants more children with Emma. Deep inside of him he knows that.

But it's something he tries not to think about.

He doesn't know what Emma wants, and he doesn't truly know where this relationship will lead, what it will become—they haven't exactly gone the traditional route thus far.

And besides all that, it's not the right time, not with the Black Fairy looming over them. Conceiving a child before she's destroyed or locked away for good would be foolish—with a jolt he remembers then that he and Emma haven't been using condoms very much lately. He vows to remedy that until they're all safe again.

When that day comes, possible future children is a discussion Killian would like to have with Emma. But not now. Not yet.

He settles himself more firmly around her, tucking his face into her hair and drinks in her scent until—as Ian said that morning—it works its magic and he's soothed enough to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol sorry Killian Emma's already pregnant


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thank you for continuing this journey with me! It's truthfully you guys still reading this fic that are keeping me writing it; without you I probably wouldn't have the motivation to work on it as hard as I can. I'm super excited to begin the sequel, Hold On to What We Are, which will be posting either over the weekend or on Labor Day Monday. Enjoy the ride, and before you get mad at me over the ending, please know that I saved A LOT for the sequel!!!

Emma isn't able to appreciate how smoothly the months have been slipping by until it's the middle of November and she's raking the leaves on the front lawn and wondering why the literal hell she ever wanted a house with a yard and ten thousand trees.

Ok, ten thousand is a gross exaggeration, but the giant beech tree in the front corner shed like a motherfucker and the sugar maples aren't much better. Her yard is carpeted in a thick, crunchy brown layer that was an unearthly mix of yellows, oranges, and reds only two weeks ago.

Fall had a good long run, but now the mornings are cold enough for her breath to mist and the sun sets before dinnertime and there's snow in the forecast for Thanksgiving.

Which is why this raking thing needs to get done _now_ —because of something about lawn suffocation and mold and other unpleasant things Emma never had to worry about when she lived in an apartment.

Being a homeowner is utterly tedious and Emma's currently regretting every decision that ever led up to it.

It probably wouldn't be so horrible except for Ian being totally useless and Killian bordering on uselessness because he's indulging Ian. Apparently Emma mistreated her son for 6 years by forcing him to grow up in a neighborhood with too few trees for him to fully exploit the wonders of autumn, and today is the day he's going to make up for what he missed.

While Killian pushes all the leaves into one large pile instead of into the paper trash bags like she asked, Ian waits on the porch, poised atop the goddamn railing like an Olympic diver, holding himself steady with one arm wrapped around the column.

It's definitely not something Emma told him he could do but she's too exasperated to try and stop it. If the kid breaks his arm or his leg or his head, Killian's the one who's going to have to deal with it. Killian with his dumb, boyish grin and the sparkle in his eye and his cheerful laughs.

Emma stops raking and forces herself to take a deep breath, halting the dangerous mood swelling in her chest and crawling up the back of her neck and over her scalp.

 _It's fine_ , she tells herself. _Chill the fuck out. Don't get angry._

It's been happening a lot this week, the sudden shifting of her moods. She snapped at Killian over breakfast, about something so trivial she can't even remember what it was. She's never really done that before, until recently.

Shame warms her cheeks and guilt writhes in her stomach like she swallowed a bunch of snakes.

Did she apologize to Killian? She doesn't remember that, either, which she's assuming means she didn't. It's probably why Killian's giving her space—though she'd prefer it if his respect of her need for space included helping her rake the leaves.

Emma sighs to herself and looks over at poor Will Scarlet, raking dutifully. _He's_ being helpful, either out of politeness or because he caught what Killian totally missed: her death glares at Killian's back and her overly aggressive raking that's leaving furrows in the lawn.

"Want some hot chocolate?" she asks.

He glances up at her, warily, as if he suspects her question is a test or a trap.

"Yes?"

"What do you like in it? I have whipped cream, cinnamon, marshmallows-"

"I'll take some rum, if you have it."

"I don't really think alcohol is conducive to yard work."

 _Also it's like 11 o'clock in the morning,_ she adds to herself wryly.

Will shrugs, a tired heave of his shoulders. "Not for you maybe. And it's more for warmth than for the motivation, anyway."

"Oh."

Emma dressed for the weather and made sure Ian did too, but she didn't notice that Will's only wearing a t-shirt under his leather jacket. His hands are bare as well, and his skin is red and blotchy from the cold.

The snakes in her gut squirm viciously.

"Shit," she swears. "Come inside and get some gloves."

"No, I'm al-"

" _Now_."

Will blanches at her tone and swiftly drops his rake. He follows her across the lawn to the porch, then up the stairs and into the house. On the floor beside the front door is a wicker basket of cold weather gear, hats and scarves and gloves in various sizes. She fishes out a pair of Henry's old knit gloves and thrusts them into Will's hands.

"Put those on before your fingers fall off," she commands.

"Thank you," he murmurs, complying.

Emma and Killian have taken him in a bit, sort of like a lost dog that occasionally needs a warm meal and some company—it's not the most _appropriate_ way to describe the situation, but it fits.

Regina's presence drove Will out of Robin's house. Emma knows Robin regrets it, but there's no getting around the fact that he loves Regina but Regina and Will don't get along. Will's solution was to leave. He departed gracefully but without a plan. Killian took pity on him and offered him a place to stay aboard the Jolly Roger until he's saved enough money for the down payment on an apartment. Emma and Killian offered to loan Will the cash—Emma also suggested they just pay for it outright—but Will refused and even insisted on paying rent for his hammock in the crew's quarters.

Will has dinner with them a few times a week and occasionally spends an afternoon playing Minecraft or Pokémon GO with Ian.

It's not _exactly_ like having Henry back, but Will's a big-brotherly presence around the house that fills the gap a little.

Emma pushes him out the door. "I'll be out in a few minutes. Why don't you go help Killian with Ian's leaf pile?"

He looks at her like that might be a test or a trap too, then cuts to the left, towards where Ian is still perched on the railing. Emma closes the door and goes to the kitchen. She halts at the stove, her hands raising to settle on her hips as she studies its surface.

Two minutes ago, fueled by how annoyed she was at Killian, she felt fine, but now she's exhausted, as if she's a tire someone abruptly let all the air out of.

" _What the fuck_ ," she groans. That's been happening a lot this week too. She's probably getting sick. Ian was sick two weeks ago, a cold he caught right after Halloween when he had hockey tryouts on a Friday night and then played the final soccer game of the season the next morning in the rain, so she probably just absorbed all his germs and now she's sick too.

Emma turns on her heel and crosses the entryway, pausing only to step out of her boots before entering the living room. She picks her way across the minefield of stray Lego pieces littering the carpet and flops onto the couch. Her head falls backwards onto the cushions and she closes her eyes.

 _Just for a minute_.

Just until her arms and legs stop feeling like they're about to fall off.

She can hear Ian giggling, right outside the window. She wonders if he jumped yet, into the pile of leaves that's probably taller than Killian by now.

Emma smiles to herself.

Okay, maybe she's not _that_ mad about the whole thing. It was worth having to rake leaves basically by herself for an hour to hear Ian laughing and to know that Killian's almost certainly grinning like an idiot, having just as much fun as their 6-year-old.

In a second, she'll go out there and join them...

\---

Killian's shaking her awake—gently, but her eyes fly open in panic nonetheless.

"Is Ian okay?" she blurts, the moment she registers whose hand is gripping her shoulder and whose blue eyes are staring at her with concern.

"Aye, love. He's fine," Killian says. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Nnn," she responds. "I'm fine. Just tired. I think I'm getting sick."

His brow creases and he lifts his hand to her face, knuckles brushing across her cheek before coming to rest on her forehead.

His touch is cool and comforting, and Emma's eyes drift shut again. "Do I feel warm?"

"A little. Do you want me to get the thermometer?"

Ian's cold was, for Killian, a crash course on modern medicine. He was terrified, until Emma realized the reason and explained that people generally don't die from fevers here.

"No, that's alright," she says. "How long was I asleep for?"

"A half hour, perhaps," he says quietly. His fingers drift down her cheek again, stroking her jaw, her neck. "Are you still tired?"

"Yea."

"Why don't you go upstairs and sleep, love? Will and Ian and I can finish raking the leaves on our own."

Her lips curl into a smirk, and Killian chuckles.

"I'm sorry we weren't much help earlier," he says.

"To be fair, Will was being helpful."

"I think because he saw the looks you were giving me and feared the consequences of _not_ being helpful."

She opens her eyes. Killian's are crinkled in a smile.

"Oh, so you _did_ see those?" she says.

"Mmhm."

"And you ignored them?"

"Aye."

Emma smacks him lightly on the chest. "Jerk."

He flashes her a cheeky grin, but it fades quickly, slipping downwards into a frown. His hand reappears on her forehead. "Are you certain you're feeling alright?"

"I'm fine. I just need some rest." She closes her eyes again. Sleep tugs at her immediately, her body suddenly heavy and her thoughts sluggish.

"Let's get you up to bed, love."

"No, m'alright. I can sleep here-"

\---

Emma wakes up in her bed. It takes her a few seconds of blinking up at the coffered ceiling to remember that she didn't fall asleep here.

Killian must have carried her up. And changed her into a pair of sweatpants. And tucked her in.

She sits up, swings her legs over the side of the bed, and listens.

The house is quiet, and there're no sounds coming from the yard. Did they finish raking the leaves already?

A peek out of the windows confirms that the yard is clean and all twelve of the leaf bags are full to bursting and huddled neatly against the fence, where they'll wait until the streets and sanitation guys come around to collect yard waste.

_Then why is the house so silent?_

It's not the suspicious sort of silence that sets Emma's mom senses tingling, it's an empty house sort of silence—only both the cars are sitting out by the curb, and Emma knows Killian wouldn't just up and leave without telling her where he's going or at least leaving her a note.

He and Ian are probably just in the basement playing knee hockey, which is their new thing.

Emma stands and goes to the bathroom to pee and brush the fuzziness out of her mouth. The toothpaste is one of those gross, supposedly healthier versions, because Killian can use Google like a pro now and Ian's allergic episode at the bake sale prompted him to start researching everything that either touches or goes into their bodies.

It's amusing and yet annoying—annoying because it means Killian spends ten minutes in the bread aisle reading the ingredients labels.

Which is why Killian does the grocery shopping alone now.

Alone or with Ian, whom Emma sends purely to ensure some decent snacks get bought.

Emma surveys herself in the mirror while she brushes her teeth. Damn, she _looks_ tired, pale with smudges under her eyes and creases from the pillow on her puffy cheeks.

Her eyes trail lower, past the tendrils of hair that escaped her ponytail and are clinging sweatily to her neck, past the rumpled collar of her t-shirt, all the way to the diamonds and the bit of gold sparkling at her throat.

She hasn't taken the necklace off since Killian first put it on her nearly a month ago, and she's not normally big on jewelry. Aside from maybe her baby blanket, Emma's never cherished an object so strongly before in her life. It feels special, not just because it's beautiful and meaningful but because it's kind of the first birthday gift anyone's ever really given her—not counting the trinkets from the boys (which she treasures) or the "presents" Neal stole from convenience stores.

After she finishes brushing her teeth she puts on a fresh shirt with a scooped neck to show off the necklace and then goes looking for Killian and Ian.

Killian's in the front room, lounging in one of the armchairs in his reading nook with a cup of tea. He sets his book down the moment he sees her.

"How do you feel, love?"

"Better," she says, striding slowly over. She does feel a bit lethargic and blurry around the edges, but she thinks that's just the post-nap hangover. "Whatcha reading?"

He turns his book so she can see the cover. " _Great Expectations_."

"That's a Charles Dickens one, right?"

"Aye."

"I think I was supposed to read that one in high school."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I never said I read it; I said I was _supposed to_ read it."

Emma reaches his chair and climbs into it, curling up in his lap and folding herself around him. He waits for her to get settled and then wraps his arms around her, engulfing her in his body heat, warmer than the three blankets she sleeps under.

"Are you still on Henry's list?" she asks, letting her head fall onto his shoulder. 

He presses his cheek to her forehead, probably checking her temperature again. "Aye. He adds more books to it every day. I fear I'll never finish it."

Emma finds Killian's books everywhere. The one he's currently reading is always on the bedside table or in his hand, and the ones he's finished he seems to leave where he finishes them, like monuments erected on the side of the road—most of them are on the bookshelf in the nook, but there are a few on the coffee table, a couple in Ian's room, some in the kitchen and the den and the basement, and one is still tucked into the basket of toilet paper in their bathroom.

It's like a reverse of the takeover Emma and Ian did of the Jolly Roger, only instead of Ian's toys all over the place it's Killian's books.

Remembering that she once found the two Lego pieces that Ian sometimes uses as her and Killian tucked into Killian's bed reminds her that the house is too quiet.

"Hey, where's Ian?"

"Will took him to the party."

Emma jolts upright. Today is Rowan and Gideon's combined birthday party.

"Shit!" she hisses. "Are we late? What time is it?"

She tries to scramble to her feet but Killian wraps his arms more tightly around her waist and holds her still.

"Relax, Swan. I told Will to inform everyone that you're feeling a bit under the weather and needed to rest and that we'll be there shortly."

"Ugh," Emma responds, and slumps back into his chest. "How late are we?"

"Only an hour. It's around 3:00. We still have some time—unless you wish to leave now?"

"No," she mumbles. Honestly she'd be perfectly happy falling asleep right here, but she owes it to Belle and Ruby to show up, so she sighs and adds, "Actually, yes. I'm gonna eat something really quick and then we can go."

As hard as she tries to tell her body to move, however, it refuses to budge. She's too comfortable. Killian's arms are too comforting and he's warm and he smells too damn good.

"...Swan?"

"Yea?"

"You haven't moved."

"I know."

Killian's arms tense. Emma feels him take a deep breath.

"Are you _certain_ you're quite well?"

Her calm evaporates. "I'm fine," she snaps, and to prove it she evacuates Killian's lap and stalks into the kitchen, where she pulls the bowl of Ian's leftover Halloween candy down from the top of the fridge. She pokes around until she finds a mini Snickers that somehow escaped Ian's notice, then unwraps it and stuffs it whole into her mouth.

When she turns around, Killian's staring at her with one judgmental eyebrow raised.

"What?" she demands, around the Snickers bar jammed in her cheek. "I'm hungry."

"Then eat some real food."

 _Now_ she remembers why she snapped at Killian this morning: he made a comment about her making French toast for the fourth morning in a row, a comment that involved some criticism about the amount of Maple syrup she used and drew an unflattering comparison between her eating habits and Ian's.

"Emma, if you're sick-"

She glares, and she sees Killian's reaction to her glare—a momentary pause in speech and a twitch at the corners of his lips—but he ignores her warning and stubbornly carries on.

"If you're sick, Swan, you need nutrients to help your body fight off the illness. Candy's not going to help you. There's nothing in there but sugar."

"I know that. You don't have to talk to me like I'm Ian, Killian. I'm an adult, not a child."

He recoils visibly at her words, as if she slapped him. For a moment his eyes blaze beneath knitted brows, but then he blinks and the spark vanishes. His shoulders sag.

"Let me make you some soup," he says, pleadingly.

 _Fuuuuck_.

Guilt writhes back to life in her gut, but even as the feeling swells and threatens to drown her from the inside out, her anger remains, like a fist that refuses to unclench.

"Fine," she says, her gaze falling to the floor. "I'm gonna go take a shower."

He opens his mouth but she brushes past him and marches up the stairs before he has a chance to speak. In the bathroom, she closes the door and flattens her back against it.

It's ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous. Part of her wants to fall to the floor and weep and the other part wants to run back downstairs and beg forgiveness before what just happened between them solidifies into something else, something permanent.

She has no idea what's going on with her moods but it's fucking annoying.

It's probably her stupid period.

She's been waiting for it for a few days now. It's late, but apparently it's making a dramatic entrance—rare for her but not unheard of.

With an internal growl she pushes herself away from the door, undresses, and steps into the shower, but her hair's only just soaked through when she shuts the shower off, rips open the curtain, and grabs a towel.

Deep down she knows Killian didn't do anything wrong; deep down she knows her reaction was unfair and pretty unprovoked, and if Ian had done what she did Emma would tell him to suck it up and go apologize.

So that's what Emma needs to do.

She needs to suck it up and go apologize to Killian. She needs to make things right because mood swings are stupid and what she said was stupid and she doesn't want something stupid to ruin this perfectly good thing they have going.

She goes downstairs in nothing but a towel and her wet skin, too anxious to take the time to dry off or put on clothes.

Killian's in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop with his arms folded over his chest and his eyes on a bowl of steaming soup sitting on the kitchen table. He looks up at her, a furrow in between his eyebrows.

There's physical distance between them, and for a split second Emma feels like she's standing on the edge of a cliff and the space separating her and Killian is as deep and wide as the Grand Canyon, but she shoves that feeling away and says, "I'm sorry," and the gap closes, knit back together by her words and by the three short strides Killian makes across the kitchen to reach her.

His hook arm slides around her waist and his hand tangles in her hair and Emma tucks herself against his chest, her face finding his open shirt collar and the patch of exposed skin just beneath his collarbone.

 _I love you_ , she thinks, and she tries to bleed the words out through her skin and into his. His arms tighten, as if he hears.

"I'm sorry as well, Swan," he says. "I shouldn't have pushed you. I just...I only want what's best for you."

"I know."

They stay that way for a few heartbeats, until, lips against her hair, Killian whispers, "Do you truly feel as though I've been treating you like a child?"

"No. I just said it because I was annoyed." His chest shudders as he exhales, and Emma lets out her own sigh. "I know I have bad habits, and one of my bad habits is getting pissed off when people point out my bad habits. I should work on that."

He plants a gentle kiss just above her ear. It feels like encouragement, and Emma finds herself laughing.

"What's so funny, Swan?"

"I think that might have been our first fight. As like, a couple."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No, I think it's pretty normal to have arguments every now and then."

She's been afraid of this, she realizes, afraid of the day the honeymoon ended, afraid of the day they had their first disagreement and what it might reveal.

And all it revealed is that Emma's sort of an idiot.

"Move in with me," she says.

Killian stiffens, then pulls back until he can see her face. "What?" he asks, bewildered, as if he's not certain he actually heard what he thinks he heard.

"Move in with me," she repeats, louder, more firmly.

One of his eyebrows becomes untethered and drifts incredulously upwards. "Why are you asking me this now?"

"Because before I was afraid to."

"And now?"

"Now I'm still afraid but I'm asking anyway."

His expression softens and his hand moves to cup her cheek. "What could you possibly be afraid of, Swan?"

"The uncertainty."

"You doubt that I would want to move in with you?" Both eyebrows now ascend to his hairline to express their astonishment.

"No, I meant...I just mean that the future's uncertain, and asking you to move in with me is a risk because there's no guarantee that-"

"That this will work out," he finishes for her, gruffly.

"Yea."

He smiles, his thumb stroking back and forth along her cheek. "Emma, a little argument like the one we had earlier isn't going to frighten me away. The only thing that will make me leave is if you tell me you want me out of your life."

_No!_

Her hands fist themselves in Killian's vest, so vehemently does she think the word.

And this is why Emma's sort of an idiot. The future being uncertain is exactly the point. Emma doesn't _believe_ in predetermination; her and Killian are neither doomed nor destined.

What they become is up to _them_.

"So, will you move in with me?"

"I'll never stop fighting for us, Swan," he says. "In order to give you answer, I need to know that you're willing to fight for us too."

Emma swallows down the lump forming in her throat. "Yes," she says.

She says it for Ian, but she says it for herself as well.

She wants this.

Killian grins. "Then I would love to move in with you."

His hand shifts as he leans in, curling around the back of her neck, fingers threading through her wet hair. He kisses her, a familiar press of soft lips and the faint scratch of stubble. It's incredible how just those two inches of contact can make her whole body feel like it's floating, like the only thing keeping her from hovering off the floor is the strong arm wrapped around her waist.

Emma breaks their kiss just enough to give her the space to ask, "How much time do you think we have before my parents send out a search party?"

"Twenty minutes?"

"That's plenty of time."

"I'm not sure if you're insulting my abilities or complimenting them."

"Take me upstairs and I'll tell you which."

At that, he lifts her into his arms, guiding her legs around his waist, and stumbles up the stairs to their bedroom with Emma giggling in his ear.

\---

The soup Killian made for her gets reheated in the microwave and dumped into a Thermos, and Killian drives to the party so Emma can drink it.

"It isn't boiled mackerel or something, is it?" she asks, sniffing the opening in the lid hesitantly.

Killian snorts. "Boiled mackerel isn't a soup, love. It's fish."

"Like, the whole fish?"

"Aye."

"Alright, Ian _definitely_ would have puked if you tried to make him eat that."

Killian grunts but doesn't comment. He tried to convince her two weeks ago that boiled mackerel would help Ian recover from his cold faster, but Emma talked him down and now she's extra glad she did. Neither she nor Henry nor Ian are seafood people. The only fishy thing that Ian eats is fried calamari, and that's because he thinks they're onion rings.

The soup is Campbell's chicken noodle, straight out of a can the way Emma prefers it instead of the from-scratch version Killian insisted they spend several hours making for Ian when he was sick.

It's a peace offering, an effort on Killian's part to show that he understands and respects her.

And it tastes terrible.

Emma spits it back into the Thermos almost as soon as it touches her tongue.

"What's wrong?" Killian asks.

She grimaces."I don't know. It..it tastes weird."

"Perhaps I cooked it wrong."

"You can't really cook this stuff wrong. Maybe reheating it in the microwave did it in." She sniffs the opening in the lid again, but now the smell makes her bowels curdle. Swiftly she twists the lid completely closed and shoves the Thermos into the farthest-away cup holder.

"I'm sorry, Swan. Do you want me to go back to the house and make you a fresh can?"

"No, that's alright. I'll eat at the party." He continues to glance worriedly at her, so she smiles and adds, "I guess I should have listened to you and let you make me the homemade one."

Emma manages to keep a straight face while she says it, but in the back of her mind a suspicion begins to form.

* * *

Over the next week and a half, her fatigue, mood swings, and random aversions to food continue.

But Emma ignores it.

Because she's not ready to _not_ ignore it.

Instead, she focuses on literally everything and anything else.

Exactly no one is surprised when Emma tells them that she asked Killian to move in with her.

"I thought he _already_ lived there," is what her mom says, and her dad's, "Oh, that's nice," is frankly so pathetic that Emma ignores him for a full hour, until he admits that he also thought Killian already lived in the house.

Ian's thrilled, though his excitement is somewhat diminished when Killian's move-in consists of a single sea chest that turns out to not only be completely devoid of treasure, but to contain the remaining third of Killian's wardrobe—which for a 6-year-old is pretty much about as boring as you could possibly get.

In response, Killian shows Ian a secret compartment hidden in the silk lining of the chest, from which he pulls a folded piece of paper.

"It's a treasure map," he explains, as he hands it to Ian. "This is where all of my treasure in Storybrooke is buried."

Ian sucks in a breath through his nose as he unfolds the map. " _No way_ ," he whispers.

Killian grins. "In the spring we can go on a treasure hunt."

"Really?"

"Aye." Killian's eyes twinkle as he watches Ian scrutinize the map with a determined scowl on his face. "Now, can I trust you to keep this somewhere safe? Somewhere no one will find it?"

Ian nods dutifully, and for a while Emma stumbles across the map in random locations all over his room, until eventually Ian chooses a hiding spot so good that Killian admits—to her, late at night, when they're alone—even he can't find it.

The night that Killian officially moves in her parents show up with a pizza and some beers and suitably enthusiastic congratulations.

Emma manages to drink a beer without actually swallowing any of it, using her magic to transfer it from her mouth to the bathroom sink, then excusing herself from the table when her bottle's empty and flushing the evidence down the drain.

 _You're just being cautious_ , she tells herself. _You don't know anything yet. You're just being careful._

But her period never shows up, and three days before Thanksgiving the morning sickness starts.

That's when Emma can't ignore the signs anymore. That's when she buys a pregnancy test and hides it in her underwear drawer where she keeps her stash of tampons (it's all fun and games until your 4-year-old finds them and thinks they're earplugs).

Emma doesn't take the pregnancy test right away though.

She can't work up the courage to.

Because once she finds out, she'll know, and once she _knows_ then it's real and it's happening and she's going to have to deal with it happening.

So she waits. She doesn't know what she's waiting for but she waits, and what she's waiting for turns out to be Granny's Thanksgiving stuffing. Emma gets one whiff of it and it's off to the races—the races being the nearest bathroom.

Emma's never vomited so hard that it came out of her nose before, but that's apparently a thing that happens and it's happening to her right now.

It's awful, she decides, and the fact that it's possible indicates a critical design flaw in human anatomy, alongside its ability to get pregnant regardless of extenuating, Black Fairy-related circumstances.

The thought sours her stomach even more, but there's literally nothing left inside of her to throw up except for her actual organs, so, feeling wrung-out, Emma picks herself up off the bathroom floor and staggers to the sink on shaking legs to wash her hands and face and rinse her mouth out.

Eager to escape the lingering stench of the vomit, she leaves the bathroom before she realizes she has no strategy for explaining her absence or for getting out of Granny's and back home, where she can contemplate how fucked she is in peace.

Killian isn't waiting for her, so that means he didn't notice anything peculiar about how quickly she vacated the diner.

Someone else is waiting for her though, someone whose caterpillar eyebrows have become one long, worried caterpillar.

"Will," she says, stopping just short of where he's leaning against the wall.

He doesn't respond, but there's something about his expression that tells Emma that he knows—and there must be something about her expression that tells him how terrified she is, because he takes her arm gently and mutters, "Let's get you some fresh air."

Will leads her straight to the side door and out onto the porch overlooking the back parking lot. Emma thinks he might be taking her to the Crow's Nest but instead he tugs her down to sit on the steps.

The cement is icy and instantly freezes her butt cheeks, but the frigid air is refreshing and Emma gulps it down. She can taste the snow the forecast promised, probably only a few hours away.

"Does Killian know?" Will asks.

"No, he..." Tears prick Emma's eyes and she has to pause and stare up at the stars until they recede. "I didn't even know for sure until just now." She huffs out a breath and looks over at Will. "How did _you_ know?"

"I lived with someone once who was pregnant. I remember the symptoms. She was tired all the time, cranky..." Emma rolls her eyes but smiles. "And then she started throwing up."

"Who was she?" Emma can't help asking. It's easier to focus on that, to deflect, to keep the spotlight on Will and not on herself.

"Her name was Alice."

"As in _Alice in Wonderland_?"

"That's her."

"Was she...your girlfriend?"

"No, just a very good friend."

Emma remembers Will's words, right before he almost died from the wounds he received defending Henry and Ian from Blackbeard's pirates: _If I do die, tell Alice_...

"So, what happened?" she prompts.

Will shrugs. "I had lost someone very important to me and I was alone, so Alice and Cyrus took me in. After about a year she became pregnant, and I knew there wasn't a place for me there anymore, so I left."

"Is that when you went back to the Merry Men?"

"Aye."

Emma nods, fitting these bits of information into the otherwise blank canvas of what she knows about Will's past.

"Are you going to tell him?"

Luckily, Emma's already a bit too numb from the cold for Will's question to immediately freak her out.

"Of course I'm going to tell him," she says. "Just...not yet. I need to know for sure before I tell him."

The pregnancy test is in her underwear drawer at the house.

Now that she can't really ignore the situation anymore, she doesn't think she can wait for a better moment to take the test.

It has to be now.

"Will, I need to go home for a little bit. Do you think you can run some interference for me?"

She knows Will won't run and tell Killian she's pregnant—it's not a matter of him being more loyal to her than to Killian, Emma just knows Will's aware that it's not his place to reveal such information.

His eyes flick back and forth between hers, then his lips slide into a lopsided grin and he cocks an eyebrow. "What do you want me to do?"

\---

Two pink lines later, Emma has her answer.

She's having a baby.

She and Killian are having a baby.

It should probably make her feel happy, or some other equally positive emotion, but all she feels is an empty pit where her happiness _should_ be.

Henry was an accident, Ian was an accident, and now this baby is an accident too. She has a knack for getting knocked up at incredibly inconvenient times: prison, fake new life, the Final Battle...

At least this time things are a little different. This time she won't be alone.

 _That's_ the thought that jumpstarts her a bit.

She's not alone; Killian's here.

"Emma?"

Oh, shit. Killian's _here_.

"Emma?" His voice is faint. He's probably by the front door still or standing at the bottom of the stairs. "Are you here, love?"

Emma scrambles off the toilet and starts pulling on her jeans.

"I'm up here!" she shouts. "I'm in the bathroom!"

The pregnancy test is in her hand. She swiftly wraps it in toilet paper how she wraps up her pads and tampons and stuffs it in the trash can, shoving it all the way to the bottom and piling other garbage on top of it, Dixie cups and Q-tips and wads of Kleenex Ian probably blew his nose in.

"Emma?"

She manages to turn on the faucet and thrust her hands into the water just as Killian knocks lightly on the bathroom door and hesitantly cracks it open.

"Emma? Are you alright?"

"Yea, I'm fine," she responds.

At her tone, he opens the door all the way. In spite of everything, Emma smiles, and it's not totally forced.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," he returns, smiling a smile that's clearly relieved. "Will said you came home because you spilled gravy on your sweater."

"Yea," she huffs, grateful that she thought to change her clothes _before_ she took the pregnancy test. "And on my jeans. And in my hair."

He chuckles. "How'd you manage that, Swan?"

"Pure clumsiness."

She shuffles him out of the bathroom before he can volunteer to empty the trash or before the trash can betray her and spit the pregnancy test out onto the floor—absurd, she knows, but she's not taking any chances.

\---

The Thanksgiving potluck at Granny's is pretty great.

At least, Emma thinks it is.

Mostly she spends the evening using every ounce of spare mental energy keeping the words " _I'm pregnant!_ " from falling out of her mouth.

Because of this, she doesn't notice Will teaching Ian how to pickpocket, or Ian stealing five quarters from Little John's back pocket, or Ian using those quarters to play _Pour Some Sugar On Me_ on repeat on the jukebox.

Killian notices, and drags Ian bodily away from the jukebox and across the diner by the back of his sweater. He deposits Ian in Emma's booth beside Ruby, who gives him a (totally fake but still effective) disapproving glower that Ian visibly withers beneath. The night ends fairly quickly after that. Ian clings poutily to Henry and refuses to acknowledge Emma or Killian—Emma has no idea what _she_ did to deserve the silent treatment, but she lets him ignore her until they get home, where he begs her to let him wear his Spiderman costume to bed.

"Um, no," she says.

"But I need to show Henry!" Ian whines, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, the thump of his heels on the kitchen floor punctuating his words. He's overtired and full of pumpkin pie and the only thing he _needs_ is sleep.

"Ian, no. Henry's already seen it. I sent him a bunch of pictures of you on Halloween."

"But he's never seen it for real!"

"You can show it to him for real tomorrow."

"But I wanna show him now!"

"Ian, it's dirty."

It's dirty and Emma honestly never wants to see it again; it's Spandex and way too tight and she spent three torturous hours of Trick-or-Treating watching him pick it out of his buttcrack in front of God and everyone in Storybrooke.

"But-"

Killian cuts in, his voice like a thunderclap. "Your mother said no, Ian, and that's final. Now go upstairs and put on your pajamas."

Ian's teeth click as he slams his jaw shut, whirls towards the stairs, and stomps away.

"Hey!" Emma barks.

Ian halts halfway up the first flight.

"If you go up there and put on that costume you will be grounded for the rest of the week. That means no fall carnival this weekend with grandma and grandpa, and no play-date with Rowan."

"Fine!" Ian stomps up the remainder of the stairs and into his room, his footsteps audible probably even from the next block over.

Emma turns to Henry. "I'm going to bed. If you're gonna stay up and watch TV just make sure you turn off all the lights when you go to upstairs."

"Ok," Henry says, then flinches as Ian slams his bedroom door and the entire house shakes on its foundations.

Killian takes a step towards the stairs, but Emma darts out a hand and grabs his arm.

"Killian, don't."

"Emma..." he growls, more plea than statement.

"Killian, if you go up there and yell at him all you're gonna prove to him is that when he slams doors it makes you angry, which is exactly what he was trying to do."

"She's right," Henry chimes. "I learned about it in my psychology class. It's-"

"Henry?" Emma says.

"Yea?"

"Not now, kid."

"Right, sorry. Uh, I'm gonna go watch TV. See you guys in the morning."

"Goodnight, Henry."

"Goodnight, lad," Killian adds softly.

Henry goes into the den, and Emma and Killian go upstairs. They take their time getting into their pajamas, and when the heat of Ian's anger is no longer a palpable force radiating down the hallway, they go and tuck him in.

Ian's already beneath the covers, Roger and One-Eyed Jim snuggled under his chin.

"You all set?" Emma asks, sitting gently on the edge of his bed.

Ian nods, eyes downcast.

Emma reaches out and brushes her fingers through his hair. "Did you have a nice time at the party?"

He nods again.

"Did you get enough pumpkin pie?"

His lips twitch, then pull into a impish grin, and Emma knows that however much pie she thinks Ian had is not even close to the real amount he ingested. She hears Killian laugh through his nose, and then he joins her, adding his warmth and weight to the mattress.

They should talk to Ian about how picking pockets is bad and about how sometimes adults can be immature and use you to prank other adults, and they should probably throw in something about how slamming doors makes Mom and Dad Upset™, but they don't. They will in the morning, but for now they leave things as is, let the evening end peacefully and with a discussion of how they'll spend Ian and Henry's Friday off together as a family.

\---

Later, in bed, Emma watches the snow falling outside the window and listens to Killian's breathing, the word _family_ rattling around in her head.

She already considers the four of them a family, but what will happen when they add a fifth to the mix? How will it change things? She has more to worry about than just Killian's reaction, there's Ian and Henry to consider too.

 _You're not alone_ , she reminds herself. And then, just to see how it feels, she pulls Killian's hand from her hip to her belly.

There's no bump there yet, and the baby's only the size of an apple seed or something, but somewhere beneath Killian's palm is a little life, another little human they created together.

She still doesn't feel... _happy_ about it, exactly. First and foremost she's disappointed—at herself, for not being more careful, for letting this happen at literally the worst possible time. Threaded through that disappointment is fear, fear of what she's risking, fear that it's not only her and Killian's relationship on the line but the baby's life, as well.

Killian needs to know, because they need to discuss what the hell they're going to do. Emma will tell him tomorrow—or the day after. Just sometime soon when the moment feels right, when it's just the two of them.

She watches the snow until she can no longer keep her eyes open, then she closes them, rolls over, and falls asleep.

\---

It feels as though Emma's only just closed her eyes when she's being shaken awake and someone's sobbing in her ear.

"Ian!"

Killian's voice, close and panicked.

"What's wrong, lad? What is it?"

Emma's eyes snap open and she turns her head. Something soft and wet and pressed against her cheek, and it takes her a minute to realize it's Ian's face and he's crying. Hovering above him is Killian, sitting up in the bed, his eyes wide, the whites of them catching the light from the window and glinting.

"Ian?" Emma says, maneuvering her body beneath Ian's limp one until she has both of her arms around him. "What's wrong kid? Did you have a bad dream?"

He's been appearing in their bed less and less lately, ever since Halloween passed and scary movies stopped airing every night on TV.

"Ian?" she asks again. "What'd you dream about? You can tell me."

Ian sniffles, then whimpers, " _The black feather lady_."


End file.
